


Risky Business

by J_Q, Nicrenkel



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Comedy, Enemies to Lovers, Light Angst, M/M, Officeplace AU, Secretary Mickey, Sexual Content, Shameless Big Bang, Swearing, accountant ian, mature - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 28
Words: 56,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24341068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/J_Q/pseuds/J_Q, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nicrenkel/pseuds/Nicrenkel
Summary: Ian Gallagher had everything in life perfectly balanced -- he was the youngest self-employed actuary in Chicago, was the reliable one his siblings turned to to keep their lives from combusting, and was on the verge of signing a client who would secure his new company’s future. That is until his new blue-eyed assistant turned everything on its head.OrThe one where Mickey gets a job as Ian's secretary.Artwork bySteorie
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 805
Kudos: 326





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stars_fall_on](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stars_fall_on/gifts).



> We wrote this for our beloved stars_fall_on. Julia, you are the guiding spirit to our color-coded filing cabinet. The sirloin to our tofurkey. The espresso to our empty coffee mugs. 
> 
> “He talked about the ocean between people, and how the whole point of everything is to find a shore worth swimming to.” ~ Becky Albertalli

_Tuesday, September 3rd. Day 0._

The spindly government assistance program employee clicked his pen repeatedly, holding it aloft as he squinted at the screen.

"Mr. Milkovich, you've been fired from every job opening we currently have posted." He read the listed history with distrust, adjusting his nametag with an air of superiority, the label-printed “Ken” freshly laminated for extra endurance. “It says that you punched a hole in the wall of the break room at Olive Garden. This was after just one week of being a busboy.”

“How’re they gonna _require_ me to say ‘The pastabilities are endless’ to every mouth breather with a menu in his hand, and then not even pay me as much as the waiters make?” he snapped, sitting forward so he could flick the edge of the dude’s folder. “Especially when cleaning up people’s goddamn messes is harder than taking pastability orders any day. Do that shit in my fu--sleep.”

Pulling his folder closer to his body to avoid the “K” finger still dangerously close to his personal space, the frazzled employee continued, “You were caught taking naps under your desk when you did telemarketing for Ameriphone. Blanket, pillow, the whole enchilada.”

“I wish I got a whole enchilada every time I conked out,” he retorted, subtly sitting forward and watching the other man pushed back into his ergonomic chair. “You really think I had just come to work from a sleepover at my cousin Donny's place? Haven't done that shit since he peed the fu--the bed with me in it.” 

The employee fiddled with his nametag, shrinking minutely under Mickey’s glare.

Mickey continued, “They were biased against me from the start because I wasn't gonna lie about the shit they’re selling. I ain't gonna rip the last cent outta the hand of some grandmother on her deathbed."

When the kid only continued to hide behind his oversized computer screen, Mickey felt himself bristle. “Don’t you even think of bringing up that goddamn juice place, or so help me god.” He wasn’t going down that road again, since it led to a pimply faced little shit who thought he could boss Mickey around. The only dude who was ever gonna boss him around was himself.

“And when you worked as a door-to-door encyclopedia salesman…” Ken squinted with uncertainty at the screen, pulling his head back in shock. “That was _you_?”

Mickey rolled his eyes, feeling cramped in the tiny cubicle. A small collection of inspirational posters adorned the wall, like a kitten hanging onto a branch for dear life was going to make him want to “Hang in there!”. Even more insulting was the one with a celebratory fist thrust into the air, with the ominous “Today is the first day of the rest of your employment!” lingering underneath, like a threat.

"Yeah, well, the last job you sent me to had me wading up to my knees in shit. Literally.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the last of his patience draining. “So I’d say we’re all squared up here, _Kenneth_. But thank you for the walk down memory lane.”

The object of his ire pecked at his keyboard, trying to maintain a guise of professionalism.

“Isn't there anything else you've got? Can't I go back to Burger Palace?"

"Not until that woman drops her lawsuit against them, no. You cannot."

Mickey sunk into his chair, letting himself descend back into his temporarily suspended hopelessness.

He’d never considered his studio apartment anything to brag about; it was tiny, void of any substantial furniture, and in need of numerous repairs.

But it was his. And it was his sole stake in a future he could call his own. Being out of Terry’s cold dead grip meant that he could make his own choices, with no fear of retribution or retaliation. But a lifetime in Terry’s employ meant that his resume wasn’t worth the shit he’d left behind in his brief employment wading through the Chicago sewers.

Nor was his patience.

“Well, I spoke too soon,” the lanky employee offered with a chipper lilt. “It looks like we do have... something..."

Mickey's eyebrows shot up in willing interest.

“Yeah? What?”

The employee chewed at his lip, visibly struggling to word what he had to say in a way that would suit Mickey’s brusque demeanor.

“Spit it out.” The sooner Mickey could start his next miserable venture, the sooner his bills got paid. “Today is the first day of my employment… it says so right fucking there. In writing.”

Kenneth swallowed thickly, leaning forward to deliver the news.


	2. Chapter 2

_Wednesday, September 4th. Day 1._

Ian set the box of Kellogg’s All-Bran cereal on the table beside his bowl and spoon, then straightened his slate gray suit jacket before pulling the red erasable marker from its holder next to the tiny whiteboard affixed to his fridge. He glanced at the small assortment of snapshots stuck to the stainless steel. 

A magnet of Captain America rearing back into fighting stance held a photo of him with his three brothers, one older, two younger at his graduation from Chicago State three years ago. He’d kept this photo because the moment in time captured them so well. Lip with a smoke dangling from his lips, Carl with a fresh crew cut and Liam with a hand on Ian’s shoulder trying to pull him closer into the semi-circle they were making, but Ian stood just a little bit outside the group, not separate but apart. 

He shifted his attention to Captain America’s shiny, Vibranium-steel alloy shield fastening a picture of his two sisters to the fridge. They were both looking into the camera, his younger sister like she was just waiting for an excuse to read him the riot act, and his older sister like she couldn’t believe one of her charges had finally left the nest--and not in a cop car or an ambulance. They were wielding paint rollers dripping with the Mediterranean Breeze paint on the walls of his office, just days before his official opening.

And finally, a photo of Ian standing stiffly in front of the newly opened business. He’d chosen for himself a magnet of Captain America in his Infinity Wars suit, looking steadfastly over his shoulder because he felt a kinship with the character.

Refocusing, he wrote “All-Bran” on the board and noted that his grocery list was getting out of hand: espresso pods, medium sized post-it notes, bacon, red post it flags, fat free milk substitute. 

It was clearly time to do some shopping, so he moved through the dining area to the small desk in the living room. His daily to-do list sat in the center of the desk on the ink blotter next to the square that read Monday, September 10th and Mickey Milkovich 9:00 am.

Once he added a note to do some grocery shopping to his daily plan, he finished his cereal, rinsed the bowl and spoon, and returned to the bedroom to select a tie. 

Not only did he prefer to eat his cereal without the looming threat of his tie ending up in his milk, he also found the daily decision of which tie to wear a bit overwhelming. His closet was filled with suit pants and jackets in varying shades of blue and crisp white dress shirts wrapped in dry cleaner plastic, but the inside of his closet door housed hooks with a rainbow assortment of ties.

For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out why he had such a weakness for ties, and he couldn’t bring himself to purchase a tie unless it verged on flashy and impractical. His fingers traced a green tartan pattern, luxuriating for a second in the feel of wool beneath his skin. A wool tie was highly impractical as it couldn’t be cleaned, and yet Ian had dropped an obscene amount of money on this tie. Even thinking about how much money he’d spent the last three years caused a knot of anxiety to form in his gut. 

It felt compulsive and that did not sit well with Ian Gallagher, risk management specialist.

Added to this was the fact that having easily 100 ties meant he had to agonize over which tie to wear each morning. Today, that agony was tenfold because he had both a potential new client coming in at 8:45 and a new employee scheduled for 9:00. He’d tried to reach the man to arrange for a later start time, but the number he’d been given by the Government Assistance Program employee had gone straight to voicemail after a most concerning: “think twice before leaving a message and wasting my time”.

He’d chosen to not leave a message. Instead, he’d stayed up well past his usual 10:30 pm bedtime and organized some reading material for his new, apparently brusque, employee to read through while Ian finished his meeting with Mrs. Zamansky. He’d been pursuing her for months now, knowing that if he brought her on-board, she’d be bringing her entire bridge club with her.

So now he had the dual challenge of selecting a tie that wouldn’t scare off a 70-something socialite with its overt worldliness and one that would set a proper tone of approachable authority for his new government appointed secretary.

Completing the Windsor knot and smoothing the shell of his turquoise tie, Ian then filled his favorite cup with decaf coffee and made the 12-step commute to work. 

Living in the apartment above ICG Insurance and Actuary Services made sense, or cents, as he liked to joke. It shaved countless hours off his weekly travel time and allowed him to access his office easily should he be needed after hours.

He laid the yellow, blue and pink file folders in the center of the reception desk for Mickey Milkovich to review, then as an afterthought, laid a sharpened pencil next to the folders. 

Tapping the desk lightly, he murmured a content “there” as everything was now ready for the day to begin. And at exactly 8:45, the overhead bell pinged and Mrs. Zamansky entered on a wave of Chanel No. 4, sweeping her oversized Christian Dior sunglasses off her face.

“Ian,” she smiled, holding out her hand, heavy diamond wedding ring winking at him. 

Ian sat his mug on the reception desk and accepted the elegant hand. He led her to his private office leaving the door ajar in anticipation of his new secretary’s arrival.

A half hour later, Ian was certain that Buffy, as she insisted he call her, was about to sign on the dotted line allowing Ian to help ensure her remaining years remained financially stable. He’d forced himself to ignore the clock, which ticked well past 9 am without the arrival of his new employee. A couple of times, his client had eyed Ian suspiciously as he’d checked his watch.

“Do you play bridge, Ian?” Mrs. Zamansky’s crimson lips pursed slightly waiting for his response, and he knew this was his final test. Ian had never failed to study for a test.

“Sadly, only on-line. However,” he sat forward in his chair enough to rest his forearms on the desk, “just last night, I was keeping house for my team when--”

Before he was able to lock Buffy into a contract by showing off his recent foray into the world of bridge, the door signaled a new arrival. Glancing over Buffy’s shoulder and through the open blinds covering his office window, he could see dark hair appear in the reception area.

The clock above the reception desk announced that his new employee was 27 minutes late.

“Excuse me just a moment,” Ian said, returning his attention to his guest. “Can I freshen your coffee?”

“I have everything I need to make my decision, Ian. I’ll follow you out.”

They rose together, Buffy moving first from Ian’s office to the reception area, while Ian prayed that what she’d heard was enough to choose him. He really needed this client. _Ties are expensive_ , his subconscious accused eliciting a guilty wince and threatening to tank his current positive mood. 

Now, Ian had to work to keep his frustration over the tardy employee in check. Perhaps the guy had a valid reason for being late. Perhaps he--

Whatever excuse Ian had been about to offer himself as to why Mickey Milkovich wasn’t able to arrive at 9 am sharp was swept away along with his breath.


	3. Chapter 3

_Wednesday, September 4th. Day 1._

Mickey stood stunned in the doorway of ICG Insurance and Actuary Services, astonished by the sheer amount of blue surrounding him.

His eyes took in more than he was anticipating, surprised by each new item they came across. The only thing cutting through the ocean of blue was the man standing stock still on the other side of the desk.

His pale skin and freckles, his vibrant red hair, and soft green eyes made it impossible not to notice him. With the square set of his shoulders and the elaborate knot of his necktie, he was like the flaming beacon that pulled sailors lost at sea safely onto shore.

When the vision in the suit held his gaze for a beat too long, Mickey cleared his throat. "Big fan of blue, huh? Looks like Picasso jerked off in here one too many times."

Getting only a blank stare from his audience, Mickey added, “You know, his Blue Period? ...No? The Blue Room? ...Nothing? Tough crowd.”

The loud gasp in response pulled him towards the old bag, scowling at him like he was last week's trash. Her upper lip curled in disgust after taking a moment to decipher the letters on his knuckles.

"Can you fuck off for a second? I've got business, here." He couldn't help but feel a bit of satisfaction as she literally clutched at her pearls, feigning a more-dramatic-than-necessary shock.

“Son, I once had a man attempt to speak to me in such a vulgar and underhanded manner… I now own his house, fifty percent of his income, and a fifty-one percent stake in his company. I wouldn’t test my patience unless you’ve brought more to the table than a temper tantrum.”

He looked back at the man in the suit, whose expression had contorted into one of shock and panic.

"UuuuhhhhhhhhLET ME WALK YOU out, Buffy." Ian's voice jumped in volume as he scrambled to do damage control.

He shot Mickey a dirty look as he escorted his potential client towards the door, but let his eyes trail over the exposed biceps and down his backside as he walked past Mickey, who smoothed a hand over his sleeveless button-down, checking that the collar was straight.

It had become clear in record time that any attempt at professionalism for Mickey was gone before it materialized even though he had worn his best business attire.

The redhead sputtered assertions and compliments well past the entry door, ass-kissing already dialed up to eleven.

Mickey took this moment of solitude to look around his new workspace, wondering how much mental damage would be done by spending 8 hours a day in the neatest office in Chicago. He could see his reflection in the metal Nespresso coffee maker, and he was afraid to touch one of the _Insurance & Risk Monthly_ magazines on the coffee table for fear the whole company would topple like a set of dominoes.

He wasn’t fucking kidding that his new boss had a thing for blue, every shade of it apparently. The walls were baby blue like a 1970 Porsche 917K. The chairs had the sleek metallic finish of an Uberti revolver casing. Suddenly feeling like he should have spent more time appreciating blue, he continued his scan around the room.

The one exception to the blue was the shiny dark wood desk that presumably would be Mickey’s home away from fucking home until he was flush enough to retire. So basically until they put him in the ground.

On the far corner of the desk, a neon blue mug was sitting on a circular coaster and turned at the exact angle to catch his eye, the message proudly declaring: “In every one of us lies the power to create change!”

It was fucking cheerful. Too fucking cheerful. He stared it down unflinchingly, seriously considering knocking it to the floor, but it would just bounce off the softly carpeted surface.

“Fucking blue?” he muttered in disbelief. Where do you even find blue carpet?

Ian walked back in abruptly, pausing in the doorway. Having taken in his visual fill, Mickey dragged bored eyes back to the man in the suit.

His lingering gaze burned into Mickey in a way that made him uncomfortable. And it had been years since Mickey did "uncomfortable". If it were merely that he had pissed off the redhead, he'd be fine with that... but there was something else smoldering behind that look.

Nervously, his eyes darted to Ian’s tie, a silky dream that Ian kept running his hand down absentmindedly. The thought flitted through Mickey’s mind that it looked soft enough to want to caress it, to feel it for himself.

The next thought was what an angry looking redhead could do to him with such a tie. He shoved both thoughts back into the dark corners of his mind where they belonged.

Daring himself to look back up, he was surprised to find a different sight altogether. The man now shone with exuberance and congeniality, smiling from cheek to cheek.

"You must be Mickey. I'm Ian Gallagher." He stepped forward and tilted his sculpted upper torso towards him, muscles flexing under his fitted dress shirt, extending his arm for a handshake.

No way was this guy his new boss. No fucking way.

"You're the-- YOU'RE the boss, here? What're you, seventeen?" Mickey spat, unimpressed.

Ian's arm hovered unmet in the air, patiently waiting to begin their day.

His smile grew bigger. "Thank you, yes, I am younger than the average Actuary... but I'm _Actua-lly_ 25." He chuckled quietly, eyes lowering bashfully as he casually drew his hand into his pocket.

“An actu-what?”

Ian looked thoughtful, “It’s like insurance for your future. Taking all of the stress out of financial risk.”

“Insurance salesman, huh?” Mickey grinned widely and tapped his knuckle to his nose. “I got one you might like. ‘I just saved a bunch of money on car insurance by switching my car into reverse and backing away from the accident’.” His smile grew impossibly wider as Ian’s dropped, nonplussed.

“Not that kind of insurance.”

Mickey replayed Ian’s previous comment silently in his mind, and then took a step closer. “I guess this means that you and me could never bang, huh? Our relationship would be too _risky_.” He crossed his arms in front of his toned chest, feeling proud of himself for coming up with that one on the spot, totally unaware that the reality of Mickey’s joke sent Ian’s heart plummeting into his shoes.

Mickey looked him up and down, trying to decide what to make of the Junior High Class President standing in front of him.

At least he hadn’t had to face down yet another lecture about professionalism in the workplace. Not yet. Though something told Mickey that a lecture from this guy would feel entirely different from the one he got at Jamba Juice, from the pimple-faced teen in a snapback visor.

"So, you want me to answer phones or…?”

His prompt must've been what Ian needed to hear, because it flipped his “on” switch and he leapt right into action, mistaking Mickey’s segue as an eagerness to get to work.

“I’ve got introductory reading material all set up for you, here.” He gestured for Mickey to have a seat behind the desk. “You’ll want to start with the yellow folder, and continue on from there,” he said warmly.

Mickey lifted his eyebrows skeptically. “Yeah…okay.”

He sat down, surprised to find Ian hovering in front of him on the other side of the desk, a big glowing smile on his face.

He opened the yellow folder to a handwritten note paper clipped to a short stack of other papers. Reading quietly to himself, he ignored Ian with skilled practice.

_We manage risk. It's what we do._

Mickey was surprised that the “i” in risk didn’t have a little heart drawn above it.

_With unbeatable analytical skills, we help people and organizations plan for the future and protect themselves from loss. By understanding the very nature of risk, we play a key role in the psychological, physical, and financial stability of society. With our help, businesses can grow, retirees can invest with confidence, and people can enjoy peace of mind._

Losing himself in words that became a buzzing sound in his mind, he absentmindedly placed the pencil between his left molars and began grinding into the wood.

His eyes flicked up to find Ian boring holes into the pencil, mouth twitching like he was witnessing a personal trauma.

Mickey flipped the handwritten note over, revealing what looked like a report by The Society of Actuaries, but what Mickey more accurately dubbed a snoozefest. The heading of this particular page turner was “Predictive Analytics and Futurism: Building Models and Networks Using Support Vector Analysis”.

Snapping the yellow folder closed and sliding it across the smooth chestnut desktop, Mickey looked up at the redhead’s blinding smile. “That,” Ian responded quickly while picking up the yellow folder, “is the future of the actuarial profession.” He pulled the folder against his chest like he was cuddling his lover.

“I guess it’s doomed, then, huh?” Mickey said, chuckling at his own joke.

Ian’s eyes glazed over, probably making a mental note to add pencils to his shopping list.

Mickey had lasted approximately 22 minutes into the reading material before stepping outside the two-story duplex for a smoke break figuring Ian could handle the non-existent phone calls from his private office.

He squatted down onto the top step of the porch staircase, sinking back and spreading his legs out in front of him.

“You must be Ian’s new secretary!” a too-fucking-chipper voice called out, close enough to make Mickey jump. He whipped his head to the right, eyes landing on the waifish, doe-eyed hippie sitting cross-legged in the grass where the front yard met the exterior of the house, looking like she was enjoying the tail end of several space cakes.

“He’s such a sweetheart. Can you believe he moved my antique Zoltar inside all by himself? You know, ‘ _Your wish is granted_ ’...That thing must weigh at least 200 lbs. After all, the turban is made of solid nickel!” She muttered to herself curiously, “Can’t seem to keep it plugged in, though.”

Brown eyes popping with excitement that belied her soft tone of voice, “He wouldn’t even take me up on my offer to sage the dark spirits out of his side of the building in return. Such selfless generosity!” She placed a hand reverently onto the wood paneling, as if feeling out the assortment of life forms behind the drywall.

Mickey stared at the woman, dumbfounded by everything she had just unloaded in his direction.

“You don’t look like the secretary I had envisioned…” She tilted her head from one side to another, taking in the full scope of the scowling raven-haired man in front of her.

“You should take a photo. It’ll last longer.” Mickey wiped at the side of his mouth with his thumb.

“Have you ever had anyone take a photo of your aura?” she asked, eyes widening in consideration. “I’ll bet it is beautiful. Majestic even.”

“Excuse ME?” he surged to his feet, eyebrows moving almost as fast as his legs. “I ain’t letting anyone take a picture of my--” He wasn’t gonna finish that thought, but he couldn’t help adding, “Even if it is fucking majestic.”

She continued to stare in growing fascination. “You know, you could be the Cherub that...” She lifted a closed hand to her chin and deliberated pensively.

A meow pulled her attention to Ian’s side of their joint front walk. “Reuben! There you are!”

Mickey peered over the edge of the porch to find an obese, gray-haired cat squatted over the flowers lining the length of Ian’s side of the house, stopping at the sidewalk.

She held up a hand to stop the protest she apparently thought Mickey was about to make. “I know what you’re thinking…”

Mickey highly fucking doubted that.

She continued, “But the ASPCA’s Holistic Pets Center list has already declared that thymus serpyllum is safe for cats to eat.”

Reuben lifted a rotund thigh, ready to continue his assault on Ian’s garden.

“He’s got some nasty ass ideas on how to prepare a meal.”

She shook her head playfully. “Life doesn’t play by our rules. Why waste energy over-thinking things, planning out the _what ifs_ , when we should be jumping right in and enjoying all of the wonder that the unknown has to offer?” She accentuated her point by tipping her head backwards, smiling at the sun.

Mickey felt a tingling sensation, as if her blasphemous remarks had reverberated back to the straight-laced Actuary on the other side of the door.

He looked over his shoulder at the window behind him and sure enough, there stood Ian, posted with his arms crossed, squinting through the blinds at his loose-lipped neighbor.

She followed Mickey’s glance at the window, waving warmly at her neighbor. “Hello, Ian!”

Ian’s eyes darted to the right, spotting Mickey watching him, and disappeared as suddenly as he had arrived.

“You know,” she directed towards the man finishing his cigarette. “They say that blue flowers represent desire, openness, hope, intimacy, and deep trust. I see all those qualities in you. You and Ian will be a great fit together.”

He ashed his cigarette onto the porch, now finding the prospect of reading himself into a coma far preferable to this conversation.

“Yeah, you got me pegged.” He lifted his arms up over and behind his head, giving his triceps a good stretch. "Maybe we should braid each other's hair and read horoscopes next."

Mickey took one last glance at Reuben, purring longingly in his direction. “You and your cat keep on providing a priceless contribution to the community. I’mma get back to color coding Mr. Actuary’s What Ifs and shit.”

He sauntered his way back into ICG Insurance and Actuary Services, ready to get on with what had indeed become the longest first day of the rest of his employment.


	4. Chapter 4

Artwork by [Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/steorie)


	5. Chapter 5

_Wednesday, September 4th. Day 1._

Ian stuffed two fingers between the slats of the wooden blinds peering into his front yard. What was that woman telling his new employee? He’d barely had a chance to educate Mickey on the process of identifying, monitoring and managing potential risks in order to minimize the negative--

He pushed his nose closer to the cool glass. What was she passing to Mickey? Her business card? Ian started scratching the side of his neck, feeling hives form under the surface.

When Amethyst Evensong moved into the other half of his business duplex last month, she’d been lugging some heavy objects up their shared sidewalk, and Ian had rushed to lend a hand, which had ended with her actually examining the lines on his palm before placing her business card in his hand with an air of motherly care.

_Why worry about life’s mistakes? Let the Universal Goddess guide you._

_Tarot Card Readings / Tantric Yoga Teacher / Crystal Diviner_

And now she was contaminating Mickey with those dangerous ideas. Worrying about making mistakes was the secret to a successful life! He tried to will Mickey back into the office with the force of his stare.

His penetrating gaze only managed to get his neighbor’s attention. She lifted her hand in greeting; the bangles around her wrist slid down her forearm and the breeze caught the crocheted material of her peasant blouse. Ian let the blinds snap back into place. It seemed ludicrous to him that the two of them had set up shop in the same building. Their doorways next to each other, one single porch to share; his Creeping Thyme a snack for her rotund cat.

“Yin and yang,” she had said to him as he’d walked away from her that day. “The universe craves balance.”

The front door opened, and Ian felt that same sense of lightheadedness he’d felt when Mickey had arrived 27 minutes after 9:00. It had felt like he was being pulled toward the man by some unseen force, like he had no control over his reactions. It felt...risky.

Unnerved, he turned away bending at the waist to realign the _Insurance & Risk Monthly_ magazines that had somehow gotten mussed up. The minor action allowed him to breathe a little better, and he was able to return his attention to Mickey, who was once again seated behind the reception desk.

“You were really letting the place go to hell,” Mickey smirked with a slight nod at the coffee table. When their eyes met, he added, “ _Ian_.”

Both syllables in his name slid fully formed from his mouth, so much intention in them that Ian thought he might have to sit down. But Mickey didn’t give him time to collect himself.

“Whose a guy got to blow around here to get a cup of fucking coffee?”

For the life of him, Ian couldn’t think of a single response to that. Should he reprimand him for inappropriate behavior in the office? Should he show him where the coffee maker was located? He should be a good host and make him a cup.

“Um, me,” Ian responded, heat spreading over his cheeks the second he realized what he’d said. “I mean, me, I will make you a cup.” He gestured toward the shiny new espresso maker and milk steamer then at himself. “Me.”

Jesus, why did he keep saying that? It was like he had no control over his mouth.

“Good to know,” Mickey said leaning back in his adjustable office chair. “Aren’t you gonna ask how I take it?”

Ian thought maybe some sort of paralysis was consuming his body, except that he once again had no control over his mouth. It insisted on asking, “How do you take it?”

Mickey chuckled. “Anyway, you wanna give it to me. I’m easy.” 

Needing to get some control of the situation, Ian squared his shoulders and reached for the Windsor knot at his neck, twisting it slightly then running his fingers down the fine satin finish. Calming his mind in the process even though he could feel Mickey’s eyes on him.

“Coming right up,” he added turning toward the side wall and the coffee station, getting a slight reprieve as he slid a coffee pod into the machine and closed it with a click. “Would you like some steamed milk with that?”

He turned his attention to Mickey, who was now leaned fully back into the chair with his booted feet crossed on the corner of the desk. Ian’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. But Mickey appeared to be engrossed in the contents of the blue folder, which outlined some of ICG’s current client profiles. Ian returned to his task reluctant to interrupt.

After layering some foam in the cup, he quietly walked toward the reception desk. His own unfinished coffee sat on the edge of the desk, so he moved it and slid the coaster closer to his secretary then placed the coffee mug down.

Without looking at Ian, Mickey slipped two fingers through the handle. “Thanks, that’ll be all for now.”

Ian blinked, wondering what had just happened, but Mickey threw him off his game once more. “Do I need to blow on it first?” His lips pulled together into a pout and gently blew patterns into the foam. 

Before Ian could respond, he took a healthy sip. “Oh, shit, that’s good. What the fuck is it?” Ian watched him peer down into the cup like it contained something magical, and despite how much he didn’t want to feel it, pleasure swelled in Ian’s chest. 

“Cappuccino.”

Nodding slightly, Mickey took one more sip then set the mug down...just to the left of the coaster...picked up his discarded pencil and shoved it between his teeth. Ian’s eyes darted around the room in indecision until Mickey removed the pencil from his mouth and started doodling what looked like handguns on the edge of the sheet in front of him.

Ian decided it was time to leave the room, but not before his hand, of its own free will, shot forward to return the mug to the coaster. He turned toward his office with the sound of a chuckle behind him.

\------

“Good morning, ICG Insurance and somethin’ or other.”

Ian bolted from his desk to the reception area, nearly tripping over his own loafers in the process, but it didn’t get him to the ringing phone before Mickey. Shit, he was the worst employer on the planet. Training your secretary to answer the phone was literally at the top of the list.

“Mickey speakin’. Who’s this?”

Ian closed his eyes for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose.

“Gregory, huh? Well, Greg, what can I do ya for?”

Finding the deep breaths to be fruitless in quelling his apprehension, Ian clenched his hands forcibly stopping himself from yanking the cordless phone from Mickey’s grip.

“Oh, is that right? You’re _thinking_ about planning for the future? You a procrastinator, Greg?”

 _Jesus_ , Ian screamed internally.

“I’m a busy guy, Greg, no time in my schedule for excuses. We doing this?” Mickey finally noticed Ian standing in the room and winked. “Next week?!? Well, Greg, I’m very disappointed.” He added a series of tongue clicks for emphasis. “Did you call to disappoint me, Greg?”

Ian dropped into the chair behind him, knocking the coffee table with his knees and sending two copies of _Insurance & Risk_ to the floor. He didn’t even notice.

“I didn’t think so. How’s tomorrow morning looking?” Mickey lifted his eyebrows in Ian’s direction. Ian nodded in response, still unsure what was happening.

“9:00 am it is. What’s your number, Greg?” Pulling the well chewed pencil from behind his ear, Mickey began flipping through the daily planner open on the desk. His eyebrows lifted at the mostly blank pages, but he settled on a date and began writing. “Excellent. And Greg?” He paused, obviously getting an affirmative from the other man. “You’ve made a good decision today. I’m very pleased.”

Ian knew his mouth was hanging open as Mickey ended the call. “That was--you were-” 

“Well, Gallagher...” he began returning his feet to the edge of the desk, “Business is about more than numbers. It’s about getting people’s number. What makes ‘em tick?”

Ian nodded.

“Pull up a--” he paused looking at the bright blue contraption Ian was sitting in, “a fucking chair?”

Running his palm along the faux leather finish, Ian explained. “Yes, well, the website said that it would provide the ultimate seating experience.”

“I bet it did. Sounds like the website is a fucking drama queen,” he said as Ian dragged the chair’s metal legs across the carpet until he reached Mickey’s desk. “Where was I? Right, gotta figure out how people are wired, man. That guy,” he continued, gesturing at the phone he’d dropped on the planning calendar, “wants to be tied up and spanked. Now, me, personally, I prefer to be the one tied up, but when it comes to business, I’ll do what I gotta do. You know?”

Mickey nudged the writing pad and pencil in Ian’s direction when he just sat in stunned silence. “You look like you’re dying to make some notes,” he chuckled. “When our boy Greg gets here tomorrow, you gotta follow through, ya? Think you can handle him?”

Dropping his feet to the floor in one smooth, swift motion, Mickey sat forward, elbows on the shiny surface of the desk, biceps tightening. “He needs a man, Ian.”

\------

Later that night--well past 10:30 pm--Ian lay in his king-sized bed staring up at the vaulted ceiling, alternating between thoughts on how his bedroom walls still needed painting and how his new secretary had blown into his life like a wrecking ball with aggressive blue eyes, NSFW tattoos and biceps that for the life of him he couldn’t demand Mickey cover up. 

After four years in school and two as an intern, Ian had finally been able to open his own business three months ago. For a new business owner, he thought he’d been doing okay. The bills were getting paid, even though he’d yet to see any kind of profit, which was why he’d contacted the Government Assistance Program. He couldn’t afford a full-fledged employee, could barely afford minimum wage in fact. But he’d figured that giving someone a chance to build their own resume was a decent thing to do.

Lord knows, his own past wasn’t some sort of white picket fence storybook. His past never failed to cause a wave of nearly paralyzing anxiety to wash over him. He rolled to his side, curling into the fetal position and blocking his mind from further destructive thoughts. No sense punishing himself by focusing on the fact that his entire future was built on the sale of the meth his mother stole from her dealer.


	6. Chapter 6

_Thursday, September 5th. Day 2._

After taking some time to settle into his role as Ian Gallagher’s handler, Mickey was starting to get the basics of his duties down, which were as follows:

1\. Maintain eye contact while doing anything he shouldn’t be doing to ensure unhampered continuity.

2\. Drink through as much of Ian’s cappuccino stock as he could so it doesn’t go to waste on clients.

3\. Wet his bottom lip if Ian starts to get that nervous twitch. 

Now that day two was underway, Mickey was feeling settled into this easy-going arrangement he’d created, just about to get himself his first cappuccino of the day when the door to Ian’s office swung open, propelling the redhead through another door, and stomping his way up the stairs to the second floor.

Mickey’s eyes followed the movement above him, hearing thumping and the occasional grunt as Ian fumbled around what Mickey suspected was his apartment. 

When Ian emerged, clutching one of the fattest file folders Mickey had seen and panting heavily, Mickey could only prop an eyebrow in mild curiosity. He ducked into his office, muttering to himself in hushed whispers.

Hurrying out to Mickey’s desk, he plopped seven thick folders down in front of them, papers spilling out of the open ends. The original folder remained in Ian’s arms, and Mickey could see “Gallagher, Frank (Fuckhead)” written in thick Sharpie across the label tab. Intrigued, Mickey started to open his mouth to ask, but words gushed from Ian’s mouth.

“Sorry. Family emergency. Just…okay, take these.” He placed a large hand onto the top of the stack nearest him, while his other hand—as usual—played with his crimson tie. “And merge the new client files with our updated changes in policy sheets that are in the second drawer of the filing cabinet. Keep one copy stapled to the inside cover of their file folders, and keep the second copy in the bottom drawer for cross reference. Their progress is marked by the color of the folder.”

Mickey stared up at Ian with utter contempt.

“Oh god, this is too much, isn’t it?” Ian’s eyes dripped with guilt and sincerity. 

“I think I can figure it out. Unless you’ve got some sort of booby trap set to trigger whenever I make the wrong move…” Mickey looked unsteadily in the direction of the filing cabinet then his blue eyes locked on Ian’s, “or were you thinking of punishing me yourself? Maybe bring out the spanking glove or the nipple clamp?”

Ian blushed hard as he stammered his way out the front door, smiling nervously over his shoulder. Mickey made a vague motion toward his own nipple, twisting the air slightly and the front door banged shut behind Gallagher.

Now left to his own devices, Mickey scanned the room for something to pique his interest and stop himself from falling asleep. Anything to avoid having to look at these folders longer than necessary.

He briefly considered hunting around in search of porn, already confident that they’d share the same predilections in jerk off material. No straight man spent as much time staring at Mickey’s body as this guy had. Furthermore, men that were wound as tightly as Ian usually had a kinky private life to balance out the stuffy goody-good routine. Case in point: _Gregory_.

Yawning loudly, he instead headed for the coffee station. He pulled open the slender supply drawer, finding emptiness where there should have been pods of espresso.

He frowned, resenting that he now felt the full force of being an aggrieved employee. He wondered if he’d find the phone number to the Better Business Bureau in that filing cabinet. 

He looked at the door to Ian’s apartment, left ajar in his frantic rush to depart, beckoning him forward.

Mickey gladly closed the distance and made his way up the staircase, ready to find justice in Ian’s negligence in the form of his backup coffee stash. He’d already decided to claim the role of coffee pod distributor for himself, apparently the only one he could rely on to follow through with crucial matters such as this.

It wasn’t until he heard the soft meow behind him that he realized he had company. Trotting up the stairs behind him was Reuben, the hippie neighbor’s cat. 

“You saw that shit too, huh?” Mickey slowed his ascent, pausing with one hand on the rail, the other raised in question. “How the fuck does the King of Cross Reference let his pod supply run dry? Fucking priorities, amirite?”

Reuben raced ahead, pounding on the apartment door with hurried paws, glancing up at Mickey with urgency. “Mowrr…”

Mickey acquiesced with a shrug, opening the door and stepping smack into Ian’s modestly sized kitchen. 

Scanning the small space in front of him, he mused that this was 100% Ian. All meticulously organized, but not remotely helpful in regards to coffee acquisitions. The counters were scrubbed clean and would probably show him his reflection if he squinted the wrong way.

The dry-erase board on the fridge held a lengthy to do list, with bullet points breaking up long run-ons. 

A few photos of happy, smiling faces (and the occasional resting bitch face) adorned the sides of it, and Mickey stepped forward to get a closer look.

“Rrrrrroh?” Reuben griped at his feet. Mickey considered the gray ball of fluff, with his tiny eyebrows furrowed in a disturbingly familiar expression. “You ever heard of ‘trampled underfoot?’ The hell is it with you cats always tryna get stepped on?” 

Reuben licked his lips hungrily. 

“Alright, gimme a minute. Jesus.”

Scratching his head in impatience, he opened the cabinets one by one, scouring each shelf for his reward.

His brief joy turned to horror when he came across a canister of coffee, which upon spinning around to face him revealed itself to be decaf. The idea that Ian might possibly have been feeding him _decaf coffee pods_ left him in need of a cold shower. 

He had at last found the large box of espresso pods on top of the refrigerator, the last place he had checked after rummaging through every drawer Ian had. Instantly vindicated for his efforts, he hugged the box close to him, scanning the label for any sign of the word “decaffeinated”. Once the coast was clear, he nestled his fortune between his chest and his bare bicep. “Fucking finally.”

With his goal achieved, his eyes fell back to the photos fastened to the fridge door with superhero magnets. _Marvel_ superhero magnets, Mickey thought to himself approvingly. 

He lingered on the photograph of Ian standing in front of the house, looking as serious and presentable as a man who enjoyed decaf could be. He looked between Ian’s stance, his expression noble and sure, and the magnet holding it in place. 

An easy smile crept across Mickey’s face. 

“Captain America, huh?” Mickey smirked. Yeah, he could see that. The ultimate do-gooder. He’d probably fill out that soldier suit just as well. 

Grabbing the dry-erase marker from the top of the marker board, he leaned in to scribble a note at the bottom of Ian’s grocery list and returned the uncapped marker to its holder. 

Reuben chose that moment to vomit up several clumps of Ian’s beloved perennials onto the carpet in front of Ian’s bedroom door. Mickey shook his head while Reuben emptied the contents of his stomach. His paws deftly avoided touching the puddle on the floor as he stared up at the brunet with bright yellow eyes of expectancy. 

“Look, man, I’ve seen my kid sister puke her guts out more times than I can count, and I never once held her hair back. Just ain’t my thing. So if you think I’mma get on my hands and knees cleaning all this up, then I don’t know what to tell you.” 

Nonetheless, Mickey searched the contents of Ian’s fridge, looking for a snack for the two of them. “If you’re anything like her, you’re gonna want to eat something greasy afterwards. You can share with me, but don’t tell anyone, alright? Got an image to maintain.”

He winked at Reuben as he grabbed a Tupperware container half filled with bacon and let the fridge door fall closed on its own, already headed towards the microwave. Maybe today wasn’t a total shit show after all.

\------

Having properly enjoyed his cappuccino while snooping around Ian’s office, Mickey reluctantly decided to wade through the mountain of paperwork that awaited him.

He searched fruitlessly through the bulging folders, trying to find the changes in policy Ian had mentioned. There was nothing in these new client folders Ian had carried out from his office, and nothing in the filing cabinet. Even in Ian’s color-coded snooze fest, there wasn’t a single goddamn label for it. He reread the tabs for a third time, and upon failing to find anything close, slammed the drawer shut with a kick.

The dawning realization that he should’ve asked Ian more about this before he left kept knocking around in his mind, creating a familiar and humiliating weight in his heart as images from his childhood invaded the sanctuary he was creating for himself.

_"It's because you couldn't keep your mouth shut!"_

_"But dad--"_

_Terry threw his near-empty bottle at Mickey's head, who dodged it with practiced ease._

_"You cost me three grand, you little shit!"_

_He stumbled over his feet toward Mickey but caught himself mid-fall with both meaty hands slapping onto the table. "You're off the job! I'm putting Stevie in charge."_

_"You're putting fucking Stevie in charge?" Mickey was incensed. "Stevie-- the Stevie who mixed bleach into his flush kit to pass a piss test?"_

_"He knows his place." Terry's words were slurred, his eyelids beginning to droop._

_"Dad! Dad, listen!" Mickey stepped sideways around the table to keep a safe distance, kicking at piles of dirty laundry as items of clothing clung to his sneakers. "I could save us so much time and money if you just-- if we--"_

_"Angelo says I've got two days to deliver. Which means YOU'VE got two days to deliver."_

_"I will. Dad, I'll go in tonight and--"_

_"You'll go NOW. You fuck this up, and you won't step foot in this house again." With that, Terry wandered off towards the back end of the house to collapse onto greasy sheets and sleep off his debilitating intoxication._

_Later that night, Mickey headed to Terry’s frequent haunt to face the music. He held his head low as he braced his hand on the door of the bar. He knew this wasn't going to end well._

_"My son!" Terry gestured around happily. "My son returns!"_

_Mickey breathed in shallow gasps, throwing his shoulders back in a false show of confidence._

_He didn't get the money. He didn't get the job done. All he did was beat a guy into passing out, and trash his place of business._

_He scrambled to find the words to say, to explain to Terry how he'd make it better, but all he could feel was panic._

_"C'mere, my boy." Terry patted the seat of the barstool next to him._

_Mickey froze where he stood, his feet not following his silent orders to move. He internally weighed which might piss Terry off more, not sitting next to him as he was told, or sitting next to him while delivering bad news. He felt a bit safer having a few feet of distance between them in case he needed to bolt._

_"Angelo called to tell me how pleased he was," Terry slurred, his drink sloshing around in the pitcher, "Showed those fuckers today, didn't ya? You made me look good."_

_Mickey opened his mouth, then reconsidered and let Terry continue instead, so as to not tip his hand._

_"Said you cut out his competition. The Orientals cut their south territory altogether and moved west. Gave it to me, like he shoulda." Terry sniggered with scorn._

_"Barkeep!" he shouted at the elderly man behind the bar. "Get my boy here a drink. It's his 12th birthday, and we're celebrating!"_

_The old man nodded and reached for a bottom-shelf bottle of whiskey._

_Terry wrapped his thick arm around Mickey's neck, pulling him close. So close they were practically sharing a breath. Mickey could smell the rancid rot from his father’s gums._

_His father stared him down with an icy glare. "You don't ever, and I mean ever, tell me you got ideas. You're not smarter 'n me. You're not better 'n me. You're a waste. You hear me?" He coiled his arm tighter, cutting off the circulation around Mickey's neck. "I give the orders, and you take 'em. You don't think, you do. You got that, boy?"_

_Mickey nodded incrementally._

_Terry stared at him with cold, dead eyes, leaving the moment hanging in silence._

_And then he pulled Mickey into a hug, curling the other sweaty arm around Mickey's shoulders. "Proud of you, son."_

_Terry returned to his drink as if nothing had happened, while Mickey remained on his feet, reeling in confusion after receiving the first hug his father had ever given him._

Mickey’s heart was pounding heavily in his chest, eyes red-rimmed and staring off into the distance. 

He felt a light tapping at his ankle. Shaking his foot brought him out of his trance incrementally, until he felt another tap. He startled, tilting to his left to peer down at the source. 

There sat Reuben, woken up from his short nap next to Mickey’s desk. His ears were at alert, rotated forward like he was listening intently to Mickey’s thoughts.

“Mowrrrr,” Reuben insisted, rolling his “r”s for emphasis. 

Mickey took a few slow, deep breaths while holding eye contact with the plump feline. 

“You think so, huh?”

Reuben stared up at him in awe, excited breath caught in his throat. Mickey stared back unblinkingly. 

His first assumption was that Reuben was ready for his next meal, as if his short slumber had already left room in his belly for a third course.

“What are you looking at me for? Ian’s garden is right out that way, just waiting to be defiled.”

Reuben pressed his whole face into Mickey’s calf, rubbing his head to the side repeatedly, letting his ears and cheekbones squish against him in a rhythmic motion. Mickey smiled, shaking his head at the whole scene. 

He returned to his task, attempting to make sense of what he was doing. He read the page on the top of the stack, making an effort to get into the right mindset. 

The words blurred together the more he re-read each sentence, going back to the beginning to start over. He dropped his face into his hands, running his fingers into his hair and down the back of his scalp in frustration. 

When he glanced down again, Reuben’s demeanor had shifted, now giving him an unimpressed glare. 

Mickey swiveled in his chair to face him, leaning back into the seat in open challenge. 

"Oh yeah? Not getting enough attention? It’s like you’re turning into Mandy the longer you and I hang out. And that ain’t a compliment.”

He scratched the back of Reuben’s head, happy for the continued distraction from what was now becoming a personal landmine.

Reuben looked at the top surface of Mickey’s desk, whimpered a sorrowful moan, and began pawing at Mickey’s ankle again. This time, both paws were engaged in tandem, effectively pushing down Mickey’s sock.

“Ay, you think you can do better, be my guest." He splayed his hands toward the hopeless piles of paperwork.

As if accepting the challenge, Reuben paused his impromptu massage and veered back, winding his hips up to make the jump. The top half of his body made it, paws scrambling frantically to pull himself upwards. His eyes widened in fright as he slipped down to the floor, landing on his side with a thud. 

Mickey shook his head. “Thought you people were supposed to land on your feet?”

He shifted to his right, grabbing the wastebasket Ian had provided him for work purposes which Mickey had immediately turned into a makeshift basketball hoop, and dumped its contents onto the blue carpet. Bent paper clips and discarded staples filtered to the bottom of the pile, tangling in the fibers as he shook the last paper ball free. 

He placed the upside-down basket in front of Reuben, gesturing with a nod of his head for him to try again.

This time, Reuben bunny-hopped upon the trash can bottom, reaching the desk with a wobbly finish. He glanced around at the scattered items atop the wooden surface, looking up at Mickey with uncertainty.

Mickey chuckled. "Story of my life, kid."

He inspected his new surroundings, sniffing at the file folders cautiously. 

Now thoroughly distracted from his task, Mickey reclined and laced his fingers behind his neck, watching as Reuben gave the disorganized layout a once-over.

Mickey thought about how much he would’ve enjoyed having a cat growing up as he watched Reuben bat around a paper clip.

"Alright, man, you tell me. Do I give myself a coronary trying to figure this shit out, or do I say fuck it and call it a day?”

Reuben considered the pile of paperwork in front of them, and flopped over onto the stack unceremoniously. A partner-in-crime if Mickey had ever seen one.

Reuben squeezed his eyes closed, paws slowly furling and unfurling in contentment.

“A-fuckin’-men.” And with that, Mickey kicked both feet up onto the corner of his desk, careful to avoid his (soon-to-be) napping friend, tilted his head against the back of the chair, and let his eyes fall closed.


	7. Chapter 7

Artwork by [Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/steorie).


	8. Chapter 8

_Thursday, September 5th. Day 2._

Ian parked the Prius a block from his duplex wanting to leave the space in front available for clients. _What clients?_ his traitorous brain taunted. _Greg_ , he taunted back a little less forcefully.

He’d thought that morning’s meeting had gone well. Or well enough. Greg had agreed to send Ian his financial portfolio and thereby give ICG a chance to represent the architect. When the fortyish man had arrived at 9 am on the dot, Ian watched his interaction with Mickey through his office window, which was fast becoming Ian’s favorite position in the office. 

Mickey had gotten a little closer to Greg than Ian deemed appropriate, or comfortable on a personal level. Once the potential client was seated at the desk across from Ian, Mickey had offered him a cappuccino, which Greg had accepted a few moments later with a moonstruck look. Mickey had reminded him to blow on it first.

The two men in almost identical Brooks Brothers suits watched the tight black sleeveless t-shirt and faux leather motorcycle pants leave the room. When Mickey had arrived earlier that day--at 7 minutes before 9:00 am!--Ian had raised his eyebrows at Mickey’s attire, then he’d ignored every other reaction his body was having to all the tight black material clinging to that compact, muscular body.

In response to Ian’s wide-eyed stare, Mickey had explained that “Greg will understand.” Based on how heartily Greg nodded at Mickey’s reminder to blow, Greg indeed understood.

From there, the men turned their attention to how much Greg was paying for insurance, but never far from Ian’s mind was Mickey telling him that this potential client needed a man. Ian was sure Greg wasn’t the only one.

Now it was mid-afternoon, and he was returning from yet another Gallagher crisis, not surprisingly involving his deadbeat, not even a sperm donor, father. Heading up the street toward the office, the file folder in his arms felt like an anchor holding him in stagnant water. No matter how hard they tried, the Gallagher siblings couldn’t shake off the stink left by their parents. Today’s shenanigans might just be the final straw.

Frank was suing Fiona because she hadn’t fixed the loose step on the front porch of their family home, and supposedly Frank tripped and threw out both his rotator cuff and aggravated his slipped disc or some bullshit. He’d contacted an ambulance chaser in a suit to defend him. 

Well, Ian wouldn’t be worth the ink on his company letterhead if he hadn’t known to prepare for Frank’s traitorous behavior. Ian had learned more about risk management at Frank’s knee than he could ever learn at U of C. Now, Fiona was in possession of a copy of their property insurance as well as reassurance that Ian had a plan to thwart the asshole before he ever got another fucking dime from one of his kids.

So despite originally storming out of ICG on a wave of righteous indignation, he was returning with a sense of pride. Vindicated in his belief that risk management was the secret to a successful life.

Inhaling the warm autumn air and the subtle changes in the leaves along Michigan Avenue, he tried to tamp down on the good feelings, certain that would only signal an opportunity for shit to go wrong.

And sure enough, he stopped abruptly on the sidewalk in front of the duplex. “Are you fucking kidding me?” he hissed looking left and right along Michigan, hoping no foot traffic was in danger of passing by. “The Radiant Divine,” he read slowly, feeling his blood pressure peak.

A black and white sign swung slightly from sturdy, wooden posts firmly planted in the dirt of the garden he shared with his neighbor. “Let the Universe decide” was printed below the shop name in some sort of medieval looking font with what Ian suspected was the _ohm_ sign etched into the wood.

Briefly considering planting himself in front of the sign for the rest of eternity, he glanced instead at his own sign sitting in a similar position on his side of the garden. 

“Working together to prevent risk,” he read aloud before squinting down to get a closer look at his creeping thyme. Cat poop!

Storming up the front steps, he pushed open the front door to his office determined to find that happy feeling again, but the sight that met his eyes confirmed that was wishful thinking.

His secretary was reclining in the leather office chair, feet propped up on the desk once again. The heel of his black boot dangerously close to Ian’s coffee cup, which Mickey had apparently been using for his own purposes. A light huffing noise was emitted from Mickey’s mouth every few seconds as he moved through his REM cycles. 

And Reuben, purring lightly as he nestled into the man’s lap.

Ian’s nostrils might have flared a little at the sight, and they sucked in a gush of air as his eyes continued around the room, over the haphazard collection of papers on the desk to the upturned garbage can up to the opened container of coffee from his personal stash before settling on the selection of _Insurance & Risk_ monthlies, one of which was flipped over.

“What the fuck?” he murmured in disbelief about to head to the coffee table to fix the wayward magazine, but then he realized that he had not been the one to bring the canister of coffee downstairs. “What the fuck?”

The door to the stairs was ajar, which he might have left that way in his rush to get to Fiona’s, but he was certain the coffee had been in the cupboard above his stove. Taking the stairs two at a time, he paused on the landing surveying his apartment. Three drawers were cracked open, a sight that caused an unhealthy tightening in Ian’s neck. 

Moving further into the space, he closed the drawers on his way to the fridge, where his shopping list revealed a new item: cappuccino shit. A shiver drifted down Ian’s spine reading that, but he chose not to examine it. Instead he opened the fridge door, scanned the contents, then shut the door with a frown.

The dining table and small living room appeared untampered with, but his bedroom door was unexpectedly closed. Rolling his neck a little to release the tension, he pushed open his door wondering if Mickey had stood here looking at his bed, at the thick navy blue comforter crumpled across his mattress, at the pillows lying askew. A wave of something like shame washed over him. It was like no matter how hard he tried, little bits of careless, wild Ian slipped through the cracks. 

Planning to make the bed to within an inch of its life, he stepped into the room but jumped back before his favorite shoe landed in...cat puke? Was that...his Creeping Thyme?

The bed now forgotten, he returned to the office, making sure to shut the door behind himself before stalking toward his new--and he used mental finger quotes--employee. Reuben opened one lazy eye in Ian’s direction then dismissed him as irrelevant, his whiskers burrowing into Mickey’s midsection. 

The slight movement caused Mickey to stir. His tattooed fingers ran along Reuben’s spine getting a feline stretch in response, while Mickey’s hips rolled a little to find a more comfortable position and his hand left the cat to run along his own belly and chest. Each movement caused a response in his triceps. Ian drank it all in like it was the proverbial oasis for a man stranded in the desert. The metaphor felt a little too accurate for Ian’s comfort.

Mickey’s hand stopped, but Ian’s eyes continued up his body until they reached blue eyes.

Shit! They were hooded and slightly sleepy but definitely open and watching Ian. If he had any doubt that Mickey knew what Ian had just been doing, and thinking, the slight curl and pout to the man’s lips gave the smirk away.

“Morning,” he drawled at Ian. The raspiness of it bringing images of his king-sized bed to mind, images of his crisp new sheets tangled and--

“Can I help you?” Now the smirk was blatant, even provocative. It actually doused Ian in cold water and he smacked Mickey’s boots off the desk, which surprised all three of them in its near violence.

Mickey snapped forward in his chair, nearly colliding face first with Ian’s groin, Reuben shot off his lap, landing with a soft but firm thud on the carpet, and Ian looked down at the top of Mickey’s head, which was still a few inches from his zipper. 

“Gallagher,” he said, dragging it out a little longer than necessary. “Am I in trouble?”

Suddenly appalled at his behavior, Ian stepped back. “Sorry,” he mumbled unsure if he was apologizing more for ogling his new employee or for hitting him. “I, um, need to get some air.”

Before the front door was fully open, Reuben shot past him, stopping briefly in Ian’s garden to add yet one more reminder that he owned the area. For a split second, Ian wanted a cigarette like he wanted air. _Risk management, be damned_ , that voice seduced him. _Let the universe decide…_

The sound of a lighter igniting tore him out of his self-destructive thoughts. Mickey stood beside him on the long porch, puffing enthusiastically on a Marlboro. Tipping his head back to release some smoke, he offered, “Family business is a bitch.” 

Ian blinked in astonishment. Did the guy really have no idea he was underperforming on the job? He needed to put some distance between himself and the situation if he had any hope of attaining serenity today. “I’m going...out.”

With that he moved toward the step, but Mickey was partially blocking his exit. Ian waited patiently for the man to move aside, but that never happened so he angled his body enough to squeeze between flesh and railing, muttering a passive aggressive “excuse me.”

A chuckle followed him up the sidewalk then a loud “Ay!” He kept walking. “Yo! Captain Calculator! Wait up, I’ll come with you. I’m starving, man. Should I lock the front door, or what?”

Tempted to return to the office to avoid unwanted company, Ian ultimately decided to start behaving like a boss, not a pissy teenager. “Yes, I have a key, and I’ll forward the phone to my cell.

Mickey bounded down the sidewalk toward him, then offered him the lit cigarette. _Temptation_ , chanted his self-saboteur. Everything about the man beside him fucked with Ian’s need for control. He waved the smoke away figuring it was basically a gateway to all things Mickey.

“Your loss. So what’s got your panties in a bunch, Gallagher?” They were making their way on foot to the strip mall a couple of blocks north. Ian had more than lunch in mind though. The location also housed one of Frank’s favorite daytime watering holes. “I mean other than family bullshit, amirite?”

Unable to contain himself any longer, Ian blurted the first complaint that came to mind, “I know you ate my meat-free vegan bacon!”

“Huh?” Mickey looked confused but also like the beginnings of something very distasteful were about to be thrust upon him. “You mean your bacon, bacon?”

“No, I mean my Sweet Earth Hickory & Sage Smoked Seitan Bacon.”

The revulsion on Mickey’s face was worth it all. “ _Ian_. I don’t understand those words.”

“The words, _Mickey_ , are code for keep your hands off my fucking bacon.” With that Ian was feeling much lighter, more in control. He hadn’t really won a battle, but he felt like the recruitment office wouldn’t turn him away now. 

“No part of my body, including my hands, is ever gonna touch your bacon again, man.”

They walked for a bit in silence, the afternoon sun starting to shift in the sky but still radiating enough heat to warm their skin. 

“Would you like me to order more _cappuccino shit_?”

“You ran outta those pods,” Mickey said, a hint of accusation in the words. Then abruptly he stopped walking. “No fucking way.”

Ian stopped too, looking at the store fronts of the strip mall for a sign as to what was bothering the guy. A nail salon, a liquor store, a Pan-Asian restaurant, a Jamba Juice, and of course, The Corner Bar, which was such a hole in the wall it didn’t deserve an actual name. At least Ian assumed that was the case since the establishment allowed Frank in on a daily basis.

A couple of old farts were puffing out front of the bar, and a pubescent kid was just finishing up adjusting the Jamba Juice street sign.

“That little motherfucker,” Mickey muttered to himself, all but forgetting Ian beside him. “Yo! Shit for brains!”

The kid shot a glance over his shoulder and dropped the bucket of sign letters he was holding. Ian could have sworn his face turned three shades of green. “Mr. Milkovich?”

“Don’t you fucking Mr. Milkovich me. Too late for that shit.”

“I--” and he took off toward the Jamba Juice door. Mickey didn’t increase his speed, but it was like the laws of the universe adjusted to accommodate his desire to reach the kid without having to exert any extra energy.

The two men arrived at the juice shop, and Mickey held the door for Ian who at this point wasn’t sure he even wanted to step foot inside, but he was as trapped in Mickey’s orbit as the kid was. 

The employee’s only door crashed into its frame just as they stepped inside. “You can hide but you can’t run,” Mickey yelled making eye contact with a different kid who was frozen behind the counter, orange vest about to be covered in papaya sunrise if he didn’t snap out of his trance.

“Are you--” the kid began, swallowing convulsively, “ _him_?”

“I’m gonna go ahead and guess the answer to that question is fuck yeah,” Mickey replied. “Gimme a PB & banana protein smoothie with a couple shots a caffeine.”  
Ian bit his tongue.

“I’m sure this guy,” Mickey continued jabbing a thumb in Ian’s direction, “wants a...kale-ribbean breeze with extra fucking kale.”

Ian bit his tongue but nodded nonetheless.

“Ay, Bucky,” Mickey said, barely glancing at the kid’s name tag.

“It’s Benny,” the kid replied, straightening the tag.

“You think that’s any better?”

“Um, well, it’s my name.”

“If you say so. Anyway, kid, got a key to the backroom? I got some fucking business to take care of.”

The kid shook his head until it threatened to snap off his neck.

“You wouldn’t lie to me now would you, Bucky my boy?”

More head shaking.

“Chop chop,” he motioned to the industrial juicer then moved to the back of the shop. “I know where you work, fuckhead, so you should probably never let your guard down.”

Mickey smiled at Ian and lifted his chin toward the juice Benny sat on the ledge. “Get me a straw, Gallagher.”

Ian removed the paper covering while keeping an eye on his employee. 

In an almost loving voice, Mickey added, “I’ll see you soon, Breyon.” He put extra emphasis on the final syllable, then accepted his smoothie from Ian, turned to Benny to explain that the smoothies were courtesy of Breyon before pushing open the front door. Ian threw a twenty on the counter when Mickey wasn’t looking and followed him out.

“Can I ask what that was all about?” Ian asked.

Wincing as the cold hit his throat, Mickey smiled. “My old boss.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, we had a bit of a falling out.”

Ian decided to let that lie because he most likely did not want to know the full story. Instead he walked the two doors down to The Corner Bar, pulling on the old wooden door handle.

“Gallagher,” Mickey hummed approvingly. “Now we’re talking.”

“We’re not here to drink. It’s business.” Then deciding that if Mickey was his secretary he was going to be privy to Ian’s business, added, “Family business.”

“Yeah? Whose ass needs kicking?” Before Ian could reply though, he concluded, “Pops?”

Ian nodded, slurped on his kale-licious smoothie and stepped inside the dim lounge.


	9. Chapter 9

_Thursday, September 5th. Day 2._

The inside of the Corner Bar was dark and smelled of hops, sweat, and desperation; the ideal location for Frank Gallagher to take up a permanent semi-residence.

But a quick scan of the small space made it clear that, unless Frank was under a booth working off a loan, Ian had just missed him.

"What can I get you?" the weather-worn man behind the counter barked, leering at Mickey while speaking to Ian like he already knew who held the purse strings.

Mickey held up the Jamba Juice cup and shook it slightly. "We're all set." He took a slow sip to prove his point, defiantly holding eye contact.

"Oh, uh--" Ian took one last glance around the stuffy room, not wanting to give away his reason for being there, lest Frank get tipped off to what he's up to. "We’re all set, actually. We were just leaving."

The man huffed and turned back to the grizzled patrons seated up at the bar.

Mickey wheezed next to him, palm splayed open in disbelief.

"I see you, you little shit!" Following Mickey's gaze through the large window, he could see the short, freckled, pimply kid Mickey had chased into the Jamba Juice standing next to the driver side door of an oversized RV, keys jangling frantically in his hand as he fumbled with the key fob.

Mickey threw his drink to the ground and bolted for the door. He paused at the small table in the foyer and grabbed a gold dragon-embossed decanter. After giving it a once over he ran out, brandishing it above his head like a lightsaber. He made it to Breyon just in time to kick at air as his tan Winnebago peeled out of the parking lot.

Mickey threw the glass in Breyon's direction, making an unsatisfying thud as it hit the bumper and shattered on the ground.

Ian watched through the front window, chuckling as he sipped his juice and forgetting for the moment that he didn’t support that kind of dramatic display.

"That decanter cost me $99.95 at Williams Sonoma." 

Ian looked over his shoulder at the bartender, leaning forward from his post with both hands pressed into the countertop. Several patrons were turned to face Ian, in a silent solidarity with the man who served their liquor. "How will you be paying to replace that, pal?"

\------

Ian spent the night dwelling on his unreasonably large bill at the Corner Bar, and Mickey’s actions that brought it about. Normally the seductive blue eyes would keep him up at night for a different reason entirely. But this time, the cause was more anxiety and doubt.

Was Mickey truly right for this job? Would he ever care about his job? When Ian thought about the clients he’d helped, the retirement funds that are cushy instead of empty, the investments that have changed lives for the better, he can’t fathom not feeling pride in his work and his sense of duty. Ian was beginning to wonder if Mickey had either.

And now his new employee had cost him a hundred bucks over some shitty liquor decanter that he turned into a weapon because he was having a fucking temper tantrum. He should ask Mickey to pay for it himself. It would be right and fair, after all.

 _But then_ , his brain supplied, _if_ Mickey refused and left the bill in Ian’s debt, he’d be forced to confront the lurking suspicion he’d been denying to himself—Mickey just didn’t care about anyone but himself. He had no sense of duty and responsibility. Ian couldn’t imagine spending every day of his foreseeable future with someone who had no personal sense of ethics. To share his beloved business with someone who felt such apathy.

Maybe it’d be better if he waited to see if Mickey offered to pay it then let the chips fall where they may.

 _Yeah_ , he’d keep it to himself for now. Surely Mickey would do the right thing. A strange lump formed in his throat as he wondered if that was true.

\------

The following morning, Ian ran his fingers over each individual tie where they hung like a rainbow on his tie rack. Selecting his favorite seven fold tie, he twisted the jade silk around his neck and draped his wool blend suit jacket over his arm. Summer was in full swing and he didn’t want his jacket to wrinkle from wearing it in this heat. Feeling a semblance of control, he made his way down to his office at 8:29 am determined to get his career back on track.

Two hours later, he stood in his office feeling the beginnings of a headache as he opened his right-hand desk drawer. The space where his bag of Hershey’s peanut butter kisses should be nestled between rows of colorful file folders was now empty, confirming that what he had just seen on the other side of the glass window was true. 

His eyes flicked between the empty desk drawer and his secretary, who was seated at his desk munching absentmindedly on Ian’s pilfered sweets. One hand scrolled the contents of his phone, one hand plucked from the pile of unwrapped chocolates gathered on the desk. He reclined in his chair, scuffed black boots propped up on the desk yet again. 

Ian slammed the desk drawer closed, spitting out a string of curses as he stormed toward his office door, then hesitated. Shit, he couldn’t go out there looking for a fight. While it might feel amazing to read his good for nothing secretary the riot act, it wasn’t how he wanted to conduct himself.

He was trying to be a fucking professional, damn it.

What would a professional do? He asked the line of superhero action figures on his window sill. Work! Focus on work. He barely remembered what day of the week it was, let alone what was on his agenda. God forbid, his _secretary_ should inform him of today’s schedule. He was too busy using the daily planner as a footrest.

Buffy Zamansky’s pink file folder was sitting in the middle of Ian’s desk. He had been waiting an appropriate amount of time to contact her after their last meeting. She had informed him that she had enough information to make a decision, and Ian had prayed that it was good information. After the abrasive, to say the least, interaction with Mickey on his first day of work, the woman had ample reason to look elsewhere for an actuary.

Well, Ian couldn’t wait any longer. He needed some good news, something soothing to take the edge off and that hooligan was currently in possession of his chocolate stash. Glancing at his watch, Ian gave up on the idea of taking a nip from his whisky flash. A sudden wave of panic surged through him, and he ripped open the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. His monogrammed flask was safely tucked behind a row of empty files.

A momentary wave of defeat washed over him, replacing the panic. So many empty file folders stared up at him, each one representing a client he had yet to sign. Why had he purchased such a large filing cabinet? It just represented how pathetic his career aspirations were.

No! He didn’t think like that anymore. This was the process of starting a new business. He couldn’t expect to open the doors and have people stumbling over each other to get to Ian, but he did have Mrs. Zamansky.

Dialing her number, he cleared his throat, squared his shoulders and turned away from the window that currently framed a dark head of hair relaxing casually against the ergonomic desk chair. Ian determinedly did not look at the long dark lashes that drifted closed.

“Good morning, Ian.”

Buffy’s confident refined voice carried to his ear, and he immediately analyzed it for evidence of her decision.

“Mrs. Zamansky. How are you?”

“Fine, fine. I’m glad you called though.”

“Oh, I was calling to see if you had any further questions or concerns,” he began, afraid to pause and give her an opportunity to say anything he didn’t want to hear. “I was also wanting to find out how your bridge tournament went.”

“Blanche led with an unsupported ace, if you can imagine! One would think this was her first round of duplicate bridge!” 

Ian could hear the outrage in her voice and regretted bringing it up. “Ah, well, I’m sure you managed a sound defense.”

“That goes without saying.”

“Right,” he fumbled, rethinking his back-up plan to find a way to infiltrate the bridge club. “Have you given further thought to our business discussions?”

“I have Ian,” she began then fell silent.

_And?_

“In light of your new working conditions, I have decided to interview my nephew’s actuary.”

_What? His new working conditions?_

“Oh!” he sputtered, imaging his fingers around Mickey’s throat. “I felt sure that we had established my ability to statistically measure probability focused on the fluctuations within the financial market that--”

“I must run, Ian. Blanche has entered us into a sectional tournament at the Knickerbocker this coming Saturday, and we are in need of a fourth.”

Ian’s mouth opened and closed. He had been preparing for the moment where an opening in Buffy’s bridge group presented itself, but he felt the old familiar self-doubt rear its pathetic head and he hesitated. A beat too long.

“Talk soon, Ian.”

As the dial tone replaced the woman’s voice, Ian glared through the glass. Mickey dropped his feet to the floor and stood up. One perfectly toned arm swept across the top of the desk, knocking the empty Kiss wrappers in the general direction of the metal trash can. Ian stepped toward the window, peering down at the blue carpet and the litter surrounding the nearly empty receptacle.

Mickey stretched both bare arms over his head, arching his back as he apparently worked out the kinks forming from his leisurely morning spent snoozing and snacking at the desk. Then he checked his pocket for his smokes and phone, glanced around the office absently, before noticing Ian glaring from the window that separated them. 

Smiling slightly, Mickey lifted a hand to salute Ian and turned toward the front door.

“NO FUCKING WAY,” Ian hissed.

\------

Mickey paused on his way out, leaning against the wall as he typed into his phone. 

"Where are you going?" 

He jumped at the unexpectedness of Ian's voice behind him. Hadn't the guy been holed up in his office, color coding the phone book or some shit? 

"Out."

"How long will you be gone?" 

Mickey glanced up mid-text, the sarcastic retort already on his tongue. 

But when he saw Ian's nostrils flare, and a cold confidence in his eyes that Mickey had never seen before, he decided to reward the bold improvement by giving it to him straight. 

"Gotta help Tony's boss’s nephew move some furniture uptown. He's a good dude and gives us some killer weed. Forgot I told him I'd stop by." 

"Who the hell is Tony?" 

Mickey's face fell into its natural annoyed scowl.

"Don't worry about it, Mom. We done with the 20 Questions? Cause I gotta head out."

"No. You're staying here."

"Says who?"

"Me. I'm your employer."

Mickey laughed. At another, more convenient time, he could see himself getting some enjoyment out of this scenario. Ian Gallagher, putting his big boy pants on. But this ain't the time.

"I got some actual shit to do. So, if you don't mind--"

"SIT. DOWN." He stared at Mickey, daring him to disobey. 

Mickey's laughing face dropped, and he rolled his eyes and moved to the door. Ian moved quickly, meeting him halfway, and throwing him back against the wall with a hand on his sternum. Mickey's cellphone clattered to the ground.

"You're going to sit down, and do your job, and not fuck up any more deals with potential clients. Do you hear me?" He growled. 

A devilish grin spread from ear to ear. "Oh yeah? _What clients?"_

Ian clenched his jaw. "Buffy was ready to sign. Her friends would've signed." His hand moved up to Mickey’s collarbone, holding him tight against the wall. "That kind of financial security would’ve let me help more people. I could’ve slept at night. Now, thanks to you, I have to focus on keeping the power from getting shut off!"

Ian's hand closed around the loose collar of Mickey's sleeveless black tee, bunching it up in his fist. 

Mickey chuckled derisively. "If your whole business was make or break on the back of some cream-faced old prunes, then maybe you're in the wrong line of work."

Ian pulled Mickey away from the wall and swung him around, stumbling backwards until the brunet collided with the desk.

But Ian pushed forward, pressing his body into Mickey's. His grip dragged the man up onto his toes, the ledge pressing into his behind enough to sting. Mickey scrambled to hold tightly to the wooden edge, to keep from being tilted backwards enough to fall flat on the desk.

Ian only stopped when their faces nearly touched, aggressive panting hitting Mickey's lips.

"My work is everything to me. _Everything_."

He stared him dead in the eye, enunciating his words carefully.

"It's all I have. My entire life is invested in this."

His grip on Mickey’s shirt tightened. 

"And I will fight for it with my last dying breath. Even if I have to tie you to a chair to get you to do your goddamn job."

Mickey's eyes flicked between Ian's, dangerous and glimmering green; his bared teeth, adding to the feeling of being held down by a wild animal and landed on his green tie. The silky item added weight to the moment that Mickey couldn't quite put his finger on.

He stared a beat too long at the smooth fabric, released from his thoughts when he felt himself harden against the curve of Ian's hip. Finding an absurd lack of will power to pull away, he dragged his eyes back up. 

His boss was now staring at his lips with the same foggy intensity.

Mickey watched him as his eyes turned darker, pupils dilating. He felt his own heart pound a little faster and let his F-U-C-K fingers slowly unclench from the desk to reach for Ian's waist.

Ian blinked before Mickey's fingertips could make contact. The lustful look on his face melted away, replaced with a dawning horror. 

He looked around them, panicked, as if someone had seen.

And when he looked back into Mickey's eyes, it was like someone had thrown cold water in Ian’s face.

He pulled away quickly, stepping backwards and away from Mickey. His mouth opened and closed, eyes wide with shock. Without a word, he rounded the desk and walked away, headed swiftly to the door to his upstairs apartment.

Mickey craned his neck to watch him walk away, noting the flush along the back of Ian's neck and admiring the way his ass filled out the back of his business slacks, muscles flexing as he powerwalked out of the lobby. When the door clicked shut behind Ian and Mickey was alone in the room, he turned himself around and slunk back into his chair, exhausted from the encounter.

In that short moment, something had changed for him. Something so abrupt, and so intense that it left him dumbfounded.

 _This guy_? The textbook definition of uptight? Can’t find the time to take the pencil out of his ass?

He looked down at his tented crotch, now half hard.

 _Fuck yes, **this guy**_. 

Looks like Tony’s boss’s nephew was going to have to wait.


	10. Chapter 10

Artwork by [Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/steorie).


	11. Chapter 11

_Friday, September 6th. Day 3._

Sleeves rolled up and tie tucked between two buttons of his dress shirt, Ian was on his knees in front of the toilet bowl, yellow rubber gloves moving furiously over the porcelain. His bathroom hadn’t been properly cleaned in far too long. Yet another grievance to lay at his secretary’s feet.

Ian had been so distracted lately that the careful precision of his life was in danger of imploding. A vision of his unmade bed flashed through his mind. He couldn’t remember if he’d made it this morning. Surging to his feet, he carefully rinsed the rubber gloves, then washed his hands. Three times. Running the nail brush over his fingers vigorously before leaving the bathroom.

Just as he suspected, his bed was a disaster. It amazed Ian every morning that his comforter and sheets could be in such disarray. What the hell did he do during the night? Clearly toss and turn, but he swore it looked more like he had spent the night--

With someone.

The baby blue sheets conjured up matching blue eyes, and his traitorous brain added dark hair contrasted starkly against the pillow case. His gaze traveled over the scattered navy comforter and imagined pale skin covering defined biceps and strong thighs. Unable to stop himself, he added his own body to the daydream. Hips moving rhythmically between those thighs, faster and faster as he’s held close by toned biceps. 

His breath was harsh now, in part from the images that seemed so real, in part from the realization that even in the sanctuary of his apartment, he couldn’t get away from the guy. The imaginary scene on his bed shifted to better fit the sudden burst of sexually charged outrage that spread over his body. 

He imagined his fingers wrapped around one pale wrist, pinning it to the mattress above the dark head, holding it firmly as the bicep flexed in response, fighting slightly against the pressure. Before he could stop himself, he replaced his hand with a silk tie, securing both of Mickey’s wrists to the headboard.

Jesus! Ian lunged at the bed tossing his pillows and comforter to the floor, so he could adjust the sheets, pulling them tight against the mattress and tucking in the corners. He was breathing heavily by the time the bed was made and pillows were arranged symmetrically. 

Stepping back, he glanced at the bed daring it to cast its spell. When a sarcastic smirk and mocking blue eyes appeared, he imagined inserting a ball gag between those pouty lips and that sent him out of the room in a huff only to see that he’d left the bathroom light on! What was wrong with him? 

Reaching the bathroom, he briefly caught his reflection in the mirror and turned away. He looked flustered, frazzled, and entirely too sexually frustrated for his own good. The last time he’d been with a guy felt so long ago that it wasn’t even worth the effort to try to remember if it had been any good. It certainly wasn’t going to offer him any images that could override the ones his brain refused to let go.

He knew he teetered on the edge of obsessive behavior, even though he’d never been diagnosed with anything. When his brain fixated, he struggled in its grasp and currently, it was determined to imagine Mickey naked and compliant in every room of his apartment.

For a split second, he imagined him making espresso at the kitchen counter and bringing it to Ian, who reclined in bed. It actually made Ian smile. Then he remembered that Mickey had snuck into his personal space and stolen his fucking coffee pods. On day fucking two of his job!

That memory made him want to punish the thief in ways that would relieve both his aggravation and his arousal simultaneously, and the events that had occurred earlier in the office snuck into his mind. For the last 45 minutes, he’d been successful in not thinking about them. Not even once. Now it had entered his brain, and it wasn’t going anywhere.

Flopping down in his desk chair, he braced his elbows on the desk and pressed his fingers into his forehead to release some tension building up, but their encounter downstairs was on loop in his mind now. Ian was shocked at his behavior. Not that he didn’t think Mickey needed to do his fucking job, but it was way out of line for a boss to manhandle an employee. What if Mickey decided to make a complaint? Ian had just put his business in jeopardy!

And all his body seemed interested in was further manhandling. Perhaps he needed to contact Kenneth at the Government Assistance Program and request he reassign Mickey.

Yes, that’s what he needed to do. It would be better for everyone involved. This was not the right job for Mickey, and Ian clearly had no control where the man was concerned. Not giving himself a chance to change his mind, he swiped into his phone, locating Kenneth’s direct number and hit the call icon. As the phone rang, he glanced down at his daily planner.

Shit, Bernie was scheduled to make his water delivery any moment now, and Ian had no idea if Mickey had defied him or chosen to obey, to do his damn job. Jamming the phone between his shoulder and chin, he unrolled his shirt sleeves, fastened the buttons along the cuffs and tightened the knot at his throat.

The call eventually went to Kenneth’s voicemail, and Ian requested that he contact him as soon as possible. Then he made his way down the stairs, wondering if it was protocol for him or Kenneth to inform Mickey of his reassignment. 

He could hear the murmur of voices confirming that he still had a secretary. A deep laugh followed, and Ian stopped on the last step, so he could peer around the stairwell at the reception area.

Bernie was leaning a hip against the edge of the desk as he sipped from Ian’s favorite blue mug, blowing into the apparently hot drink, while his secretary brewed a second mug and tended to the man’s needs, deep in conversation. 

It was like he had walked into a different dimension, one where the villain was actually the hero.

\------

"Never really saw Ian hiring a secretary. Seems like the kind of guy who can do it all on his own. Wants to do it all on his own."

"Ay, I'm not his secretary."

"Oh yeah? What do you call it? Typist? Clerk?"

Mickey moved his shoulders back and his chin up in an old, ingrained reaction. “Associate.”

This earned a warm laugh from the AbsoClear Water vendor. “Not unless Ian’s a capo for the Irish Mafia. Let’s go with…assistant?”

Mickey tilted his head in consideration, grabbing the completed drink and transferring it over, handle first. 

“Though ‘Boy Monday’ has a nice ring to it…” Bernie winked knowingly and eagerly accepted his hot beverage.

“You repeat those words outside of this room, and I’ll tell the missus about that time you cried watching _Top Gun_.” When Bernie started to tip the mug too quickly, Mickey blurted, "This shit'll burn you, man. Might want to let it cool down, first."

Nodding in agreement, Bernie gingerly adjusted his grip of the blue mug to the handle and blew on the steaming cappuccino.

"So," the older man leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice, "Ian do that thing, where he smiles at his figurines, like he’s having silent little conversations with them, trying to motivate them?"

They cracked up in unison.

"Every damn day, man."

Bernie carefully sipped at the mug, cautious not to spill any onto the plush carpet. 

"You're lucky, though, Mick my boy. Ian's one of the best guys I know. I'd kill to have a boss like that. Treats you like you're a person. Doesn't talk down to you. He's been telling me I should look into a workplace claim against my employer, but I keep telling him I can't afford it..."

Mickey clenched his jaw, putting a little aggression into preparing the next drink. "That shit ain't right, Bernie. You just say the word and I--"

They both turned at the sound of the stairwell door creaking open. The top of Ian's face peered around the side.

"Speak of the devil." Bernie set his drink down on the coaster lying previously unused on the desk. "Good to see you. How's business?"

They could see Ian fidgeting with his tie nervously from where he stood, half hidden in the doorway.

He cleared his throat. "Bernie! How's your back doing? Did you call that specialist I recommended?" Purposely dodging the question about work, Ian carefully stepped past the coffee station, eyes not fully meeting Mickey's just yet.

"Ah, can't really afford that kind of thing right now, but I've still got the number." Bernie smiled politely, gesturing at Mickey. "I had no idea you'd hired my boy, here. When he opened the door for me, it was like I was seeing that ten-year-old who thought he was the baddest MF on the South Side. I’d say it’s been at least five years or so since I last laid eyes on him. Too long. We’ve missed you, kid."

Ian glanced up at Mickey's shining face, beaming with pride and a surprising sense of sheepishness. 

"Yeah, been too long, man." He shifted, turning to Ian. "Used to come by this guy's bike shop back in the day before the fucking recession kicked everyone’s ass. Lorraine used to make us these muffins. What the hell were they called?”

Bernie smiled in pleasure. “Morning glory.”

“Yeah, yeah. Had the fucking carrots in it. How that shit tasted so good blew my fucking mind. She still make that?" At Bernie's confirming nod, Mickey added, "Then I definitely gotta come by for a visit."

"We used to take Mickey and the kids in when their old man was in and out of jail. We lived across the street and Raine hated seeing them coming and going alone, trying to feed themselves.”

Mickey looked down into his coffee mug, blowing a little crater in his froth. “She made good fucking lasagna. And she put fucking carrots in that shit too!”

Bernie laughed. “She knew you little rascals hadn’t ever seen a vegetable and would probably make a run for it if she didn’t hide them.”

“Still need to hide them,” Mickey muttered but grinned a little.

“I taught the boys how to change the oil in a Harley, how to ring up a sale, and how to bluff their way through any poker game. This one,” he paused to point at Mickey, “caught on like a natural." 

Mickey beamed.

"And Raine helped them with their homework, especially math since she was a bookkeeper for the shop. Would a homeschooled those hooligans at the drop of a hat. Told them 'No TV until your homework is done!' And look at how it paid off. Our Mickey, part of the 9 to 5 working class." 

Mickey shifted uncomfortably avoiding Ian’s gaze, which had now landed on him. Fucking Bernie was making him feel...guilt? Shit, he needed outta here. "Anyway, I'm gonna go grab some shit. Be right back."

Ian stood quietly, allowing Mickey to escape out the front door and wondering where he felt the need to go. When the door swung shut behind Mickey, Bernie caught Ian’s eye and Ian braced himself for the question he knew was on the tip of the proud man’s tongue.

“So how’s he working out for you? Never saw him in an office-type job, but he’s got gusto, that’s for sure. Headstrong.”

He stared at Ian with an easy smile, waiting to hear good news.

“He’s…lively,” Ian supplied. “And…” he searched with honest effort, picturing Mickey as he prowled around the office and upstairs apartment...in leather pants. His eyes shot back to Bernie’s, “um...inquisitive.”

Bernie was watching him closely, smiling contentedly. “He’s not a bad cook, either. Bet you don’t know this yet, but he can hold his own in the kitchen.” 

The redhead absorbed the man’s intentions with a quiet nod, letting the idea that Mickey’s surrogate dad was trying to set them up sink in. 

Mickey returned hauling two large cylinders of water. When Bernie moved to set up the first one, Mickey held up a hand. "I got this. Last thing you need is to break a hip." Mickey went for teasing humor, but the concern was evident in his voice.

Ian watched Mickey remove the empty container from the dispenser. There wasn't a trace of disdain to be found. He moved quickly, and with deliberate purpose.

"I didn't know you had a bike shop, Bernie." Ian's confidence faltered with his sudden lack of awareness about someone he sees weekly.

"Used to. The wife and I had to close the shop a few years ago. Lost the house after that. That's why I took up this job. Needed to make a steady income."

"And that's why your employers have been neglecting their duties. They're taking advantage of you, knowing you're less likely to fight it if you're depending on the job."

Mickey looked up, surprised to find Ian fuming with righteous indignation. It shouldn’t have surprised him though that Captain Calculator had found yet another cause to personally invest himself in. "Yeah, that's why they're making an old man throw his fucking back out doing some 20-year-old college kids' job."

Bernie made to protest and was cut off. "Save it," Mickey scowled. "I don't wanna hear that you can hold your own when you're two water jugs away from being laid up in bed for the rest of your life."

Ian frowned. "They can't just ignore your injury reports. That's illegal."

"Since they don't give me enough hours to offer health insurance, they've washed their hands of it." Bernie lifted the mug, finding it cool enough to drink, and enjoyed it as he leaned further into the side of the desk. "But let's keep this--" he gestured to Mickey, flipping the filled bottle into place and setting the mechanism, "--between us. If they find out I let someone else install for me, they'll have me canned. I'd only ever trust Mickey to do it for me."

"And there's no fucking way I was gonna stand around kicking my heels, letting you hurt yourself when I could do it for you." He set the second container into place next to the dispenser, and stood with his hands on his hips, eyebrows daring Bernie to argue with him.

Bernie dropped his head in humble defeat. “You grew up to be one of the good ones. Dependable. Always knew you would be.” He paused, head picking up with purpose and looking Ian directly in the eye. “Good men like him are hard to find, Ian. A rare find.”

He looked between the two with such obvious meaning that Mickey felt the back of his neck heat up. “Jesus Christ…c’mon, I’ll walk you out.” He brought his barely touched cappuccino with him as he clomped towards the door. 

Bernie raised his mug in Ian’s direction, saluting him. “Thanks for the drink. I was in need of a pick me up.” His smile reached his eyes as he nodded once and turned to follow Mickey out.

“See you, Bernie,” Ian said fondly.

Mickey walked in a few minutes later. “Didn’t think anyone had found a more run-down shit hole to live in than mine, but…” He shook his head, grimacing. “They coulda fucking called me. At least gotten ahold of Mandy. I could’ve done something to help ‘em, maybe.” 

Mickey lost himself in thought, chewing on his bottom lip.

Getting no response from Ian, he looked at him in challenge, throwing a defiant hand out towards the door. “They work themselves to the bone for how goddamn long, just to end up in West Englewood, tripping over tweakers and hookers. That’s bullshit.” 

“I’m not arguing with you.” The corners of Ian’s lips picked up minutely.

“Yeah, well…”

He sat himself down behind his desk. Glowering at the paperwork splayed in disarray, he picked up one pile, placed it atop a separate pile, and then frowned at it. He looked up to find Ian watching him with a soft expression. 

“I know what you mean. Poverty will grind you, gets into your blood and eats away at you. Never shake that no matter how far you come. Relentless,” Ian seemed to be lost in thought. 

Mickey listened to Ian, stunned to find out how similar their experiences had been. He wondered if this is where Ian’s strength came from. A childhood full of hustle, just like his own. 

Mickey’s eyes drew up and down Ian’s form, feeling like he was really seeing Ian for the first time. He found himself curious as to what made this guy, this guy of all people, turn into the kind of dominant, aggressive guy he's into. He thought back to what he said or did that pissed Ian off. The longer he took in the sight of Ian, the more he wanted to hone in on how to make it happen again.

As he considered this, Ian was apparently taking in the sight of him as well. He liked how that felt, seeing Ian look almost impressed with him. He wanted to see that certainty in Ian’s eyes as he pressed up against Mickey, again.

He thought back to his previous dismissal of Ian’s concerns, before the man had dashed up the stairs and out of the lobby. If it weren’t for Mickey, Ian would’ve had peace of mind because Mrs whateverherenameis would a signed, he had no doubt about it. Now, through Mickey’s actions, Ian had to worry about the same old money bullshit he’d been worrying about his whole life.

“Well… _I’m_ not interested in getting another notice from People’s Gas, either,” he announced, making a decision. “Ain’t happening here. Power’s staying on, no matter how many old bags we gotta bring in.”

Something shifted in Ian’s expression. He watched Mickey for a beat longer, sending vibes that went straight to Mickey’s groin and headed into his office without another word.


	12. Chapter 12

_Wednesday, September 11th. Day 8._

“Cappuccino,” Mickey stated, setting a steaming mug on the corner of Ian’s desk...about three inches from his coaster and directly on top of the policy liability calculations Ian was performing for Greg.

Ian looked at it, feeling both pleasure and anxiety. The simple fact that Mickey was bringing him a coffee, unprompted, ended up overriding the compulsion to sit the cup firmly in the center of the wooden coaster. He’d do that when Mickey wasn’t looking. Nobody was perfect.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling at the back of that dark head as Mickey made his way out of the room.

“Oh,” he added with a quick look at Ian, eyes flicking between Ian’s face and the mug, “don’t forget to blow.”

Then he was gone, and Ian sat at his desk blowing into the perfect foam and thinking about his secretary. Maybe some of this situation was Ian’s fault. Had he been giving Mickey enough direction? Sharing his expectations with him? He was having a hard time remembering because his attention was being pulled out of his office and into the reception area. It was like he could feel Mickey in the next room.

The last few days, it seemed like Mickey was trying...or at least not actively working at pissing Ian off, but Ian had been holding back because he wasn’t sure how to handle his secretary.

Handle his secretary. That really was the problem. He wanted to handle his secretary. He had wanted to handle him when Mickey was charming Greg’s partner into coming in to meet Ian. He wanted to handle him when he spent the entire morning working the espresso machine like he was a goddamn Starbucks barista. And he wanted to handle him when he brought Ian a coffee the last three mornings. 

He stood up, taking his coffee toward the window that separated him from the outer office. Mickey was seated on the edge of the reception desk, one booted foot perched on the chair twisting it in small half circles. In response, Ian sipped aggressively from his mug, burning his tongue in the process.

“Shit!” he hissed, rubbing his tongue along his lip to soothe it while Mickey balled up a sheet of paper and tossed it in the direction of the trash can. It went sailing past and Mickey gave it a glance, pursing his lips when he noticed it land near the coffee station. He balled up a second paper that looked to Ian from his position at the window like a copy of an invoice. 

Ian started toward the door to stop him, but Mickey lifted his arm high taking aim and the movement lifted the edge of his yellow t-shirt away from his waist revealing a strip of skin, and Ian paused mid sip--burning his lip this time.

“Shit!”

The paper hit the trash can, circling around the edge then dropping into the receptacle, and Ian could hear the hoot of satisfaction through the glass. Then Mickey turned back to whatever paperwork he was mutilating. 

He shoved a small stack of paper into the stapler and gave it a _whack_! Ian knew before Mickey scowled that he had tried to staple too many sheets at once. Mickey dropped his foot to the floor and stood up, leaning into the stapler and forming a fist.

_Whack!_

The impact of the hit sent the stapler ricocheting across the desk, and Mickey lifted the stack of paper closer to his face to examine the staple. It mustn’t have worked because he scowled again and ripped the pages apart, tossing them on the desk in a huff. A yellow file folder sat next to the paper, and he stuffed the pages inside, not bothering to straighten them.

When he turned toward the filing cabinet obviously intending to file the folder, Ian left his office. This would never do! Those pages needed not only adhered to each other, they needed--

Ian’s thoughts were cut off as he entered the reception area to the sight of Mickey’s jean clad ass. He was bent over the cabinet, filing apparently. Ian paused, doubting his decisions. He couldn’t go storming in, demanding that Mickey do things his way exactly. 

Even if those ways were the most efficient and effective ways to achieve optimal results. No, if he did that, he would be guilty of micro-managing, which had never gotten him anything but angry rebuffs. Thinking back to how annoyed Fiona would get with him when he’d rearrange the kitchen to increase efficiency and she’d only complain that she couldn’t find anything.

Mickey stood up with a pink folder in his hand, which he set on the top of the file cabinet before pulling the pencil from behind his ear. He wrote something on the tab of the folder, and Ian swallowed hard. Surely, Mickey had noticed that all the folders were labeled in fine black Jiffy maker??

Turning back toward the desk and the remaining sheets of paper, Mickey noticed Ian watching him. “Gallagher. Wanna take a picture?”

“I was just--” he paused, a bundle of nerves now between the file that was in desperate need of adjustment, the memory of Mickey’s body pressed briefly to his and the way the guy was currently chewing the corner of his lip as he pulled the stapler back toward his face.

“You were just…” Mickey stuffed way too many pages into the stapler AGAIN, “staring?” 

“NO! Looking. I mean watching,” he stammered. 

“Stalking?” 

_Whack!_

“Fuck’s sake. What the hell is wrong with this damn thing?” Mickey hit the stapler two more times in quick succession jamming it up completely. He pulled the handle and base apart peering at the staples. 

“Let me help.” Ian couldn’t take it anymore. He strode around the desk coming up behind Mickey, who was now banging the stapler against the desk attempting to get the misfired staple out. “Please!” 

Ian reached around Mickey covering his _FUCK_ fingers with his own and tightening before the stapler could hit the hardwood surface. Mickey stiffened refusing to release the stapler. 

“Release the stapler,” Ian said calmly despite his suddenly jackhammering heart and spiraling mind. 

“Make me,” Mickey said so quietly that Ian thought he might have imagined it, but Mickey hadn’t released his grip. “ _Ian_.” 

“Mickey,” he whispered as his other hand brushed against his hip. “I said release it.” 

Turning his head until his ear was inches from Ian’s lips, he let out a husky breath. “And I said...make me.”

Ian felt something loosen in his chest, something that up till this moment he hadn’t realized clenched around his heart. Along with it came a surge of power. 

And the front door opened. The tall, gangly young man who stepped through had government official written all over him.

“Oh, hello!” he said, spotting Mickey and Ian in close proximity. “I’m, um, Kenneth from the Government Assistance Program.” 

Ian released Mickey’s hand and stepped back, once again horrified that he was manhandling his secretary--and now he’d gotten caught! Despite how loudly his common sense was screaming at him, the rest of his body was relaxed and content with the knowledge that he was treating Mickey like he belonged to him. 

“Please come in,” Ian said, eyes on Mickey’s profile which has shifted from challenging Ian in some cat and mouse game to dark and stormy. “I’m Ian. Gallagher.” 

“I just got your call this morning. Sorry for the delay. I was out of town and we are short staffed with the end of summer holidays, so I thought I’d come in to discuss whatever was bothering you.” Kenneth was looking everywhere but at Mickey, and Ian couldn’t blame him as Mickey’s demeanor was anything but friendly. 

“Oh, right. Well, I think I made that call prematurely,” Ian responded and Mickey’s elbow connected with Ian’s solar plexus. With a harsh inhale, Ian stepped aside. 

“Ex- _cuse_ me, Mr. Gallagher,” he hissed and grabbed his smokes from the credenza behind him. Kenneth stood in the doorway, but he jumped out of the way when Mickey apparently intended to walk right into the man. 

The door slammed shut behind him. 

Ian cleared his throat as Mickey came into view through the front window. “I meant to call you back to tell you everything is fine.” 

Looking doubtful, Kenneth lifted the two-inch-thick folder in his hand opening to a random document. “This folder says otherwise, Mr. Gallagher. For instance, he was dismissed from Jamba Juice for insubordination, and--” he paused to flip to the next sheet, “the Olive Garden for--”

“Thank you but we’re fine.” Ian didn’t want to hear anymore, especially when he could see Mickey pacing the length of the front porch, puffing savagely on his cigarette, while a gray furball followed him nearly tripping him with every second step. 

“We don’t expect employers to put up with unemployable individuals. While we have run out of options for Mr. Milkovich, that is not your responsibility. I just need you to sign this letter of dismissal.” 

He pulled a single sheet of paper from the folder and held it out to Ian, who actually took a step back in revulsion. 

“No.” 

“No?” Kenneth frowned. “I don’t understand. It looked to me like you were having issues with a stapler when I walked in.” 

“Well, yes, but--” Ian reached out for the stapler, “it’s a very problematic stapler. I’m thinking of investing in a new one.” 

“I see?” 

Ian moved toward the doorway, planning to usher him out. “Sorry for taking up your time unnecessarily. Thank you for coming though.” 

“Well, okay,” Kenneth agreed, looking relieved. “Great!” 

Ian followed him out the door, eyes on Mickey who was turned away from them. Silently fuming. 

“Good luck with your stapler situation,” Kenneth offered as he made his way down the sidewalk, stepping over that damn cat. 

Ian waved. 

“I guess I better get my shit,” Mickey said flicking his butt into the bush and pushing past Ian. “It’s been real, Gallagher.” 

But Ian planted his feet, blocking Mickey’s entrance into the office. “It’s not lunchtime yet, Mickey.” 

They were chest to chest. Ian could see the muscles in Mickey’s jaw working, but his eyes shifted left and right quickly, then up to Ian’s. 

“I’ll get you a heavy-duty stapler,” Ian explained, staring into Mickey’s eyes and feeling that loosening in his chest again. “I needed one anyway.” 

Mickey nodded, staring back equally as hard. “I could, uh, pick it up for you.” His right hand made a swipe over his nose and covered his lips momentarily. “I was gonna get some lunch anyway.” 

“That would be great. Thank you.” The urge to hug Mickey forced Ian to step back and move into the office. “Why don’t I make us some sandwiches for lunch while you run to the store?”

Mickey followed him inside, mumbling the whole way. “As long as it’s not some of the hippie shit you tried to pass off as bacon. Tryna poison me, Ian.”  
Ian smiled to himself as he shut the front door behind them.


	13. Chapter 13

_Friday, September 13th. Day 10._

Mickey eyed his new stapler wondering what else needed stapling. For the last two days, he’d been enjoying the brute force it took to properly dislodge the metal staples, discovering with more than a little pleasure that each pound of his fist against the contraption created an equally jarring reaction in his boss. 

Every time, Ian looked up from his desk, glancing through the window that separated them. Mickey would also look up and smile, and Ian would try valiantly to suppress his own smile before returning his attention to whatever mind-numbing shit he was working on. 

Leaving Mickey feeling sort of cold. Like he’d had the sun shining on him, warming him from the inside out, then a cloud would pass over and--what the fuck? He hit the stapler in the way he wanted to hit his forehead. Hard. 

Apparently, eight days as Ian’s secretary and he was growing ovaries. Fuck’s sake. 

But that didn’t stop him from glancing up, slyly, to watch Ian study what was on the page in front of him. Whatever it was must have been getting him keyed up. Again. Long fingers running through his red hair in repetitive motions, leaving it slightly messy. Mickey wondered what that hair looked like in the morning after a night of sex. 

Deciding that he was going to find out, Mickey sat back and watched the redhead uninhibitedly. Maybe it was time to push Gallagher in that direction instead of just playing around with him. 

As he watched, Ian shoved something into his mouth almost absentmindedly. Probably didn’t even know he was eating, Mickey figured. Guy was a ball of fucking stress and anxiety. That thought led back to sex, and he wondered how long it had been since Ian had any. Clearly way too fucking long. 

Come to think of it, how long had it been since he’d had sex? Shit, maybe he needed to check his Grindr account and hook up, so he didn’t end up a ball of stress and anxiety pounding staplers instead of dudes. 

Ian met his eyes, smiling a little as he tried to swallow whatever shit he was stuffing his face with. Mickey was reluctant to identify it. On second thought, he probably couldn’t identify it because he wasn’t a fucking gerbil. He was a man. Maybe the first thing Ian needed was a fucking steak. 

Mickey made a mean steak. His fucking marinade had made men weep. Yup, Ian was going to be eating a steak. Medium rare Ribeye, no pansy Tenderloin for this situation. Ian caught his eye, smiling with a mouthful of his mystery food and waved him into his office. 

He sauntered over, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, biceps visible where his sleeves were missing. While he was definitely making what they called an effort now, Mickey wasn’t going to ask how high. Ian needed to know that and accept it. Mickey was his own man, but he also had to pay his fucking rent. Stupid fucking bills. 

Ian looked as productive as always, back straight and ice blue tie even straighter, official-looking paper strewn across his desk, but he glanced shyly over to his left, eyeing Mickey up and down from under his eyelashes. Mickey thought of sex again. "You want?" Ian asked. 

Hell yes, he wanted and the force of that was a little shocking actually. 

Ian waved a brown thing in front of his face. It flopped as his arm moved. “Yummy. Would you like some?” 

Mickey eyed the pink tongue running over Ian's lips, savoring the remains of the bite he’d been chewing on since Mickey arrived. That didn’t bode well if it took, like, twenty fucking minutes to gnaw on one chunk.

"Depends,” he snarked. “Is it real food?”

"I'll tell you after you try it." 

“Hard pass.” He sat in the chair facing Ian, adjusting his dark wash jeans so he could recline despite the rigid uncomfortableness of the chair. No wonder Ian looked like he had a pole up his ass all the time. Mickey thought of sex again. 

"What've we got here?" he asked, changing the subject in his mind by drawing their attention to all the numbers Ian was working on. Knowing Ian, it was some crazy shit that Mickey was going to need the fucking internet to explain to him. 

“Micro-insurance quotes.” 

Yup. “I’m not fuckin’ Google Translate, Ian. Speak English.” 

Ian smiled, eyes all twinkly as he gnawed off another chunk of his brown stick. Mickey couldn’t see how whatever he was eating could make the guy so damn happy. He was going to fall to pieces when he tried Mickey’s steak. 

“It’s insurance for low income families, finding ways to protect them but with premium payments proportionate to their income and the likelihood and cost of the risks involved,” Ian explained. “You know?” 

Damn it, this guy. 

“Sure. Can I, uh, help?” 

“By stapling something?” Ian smirked but he looked cute as fuck doing it, so he forgave the jab. 

“Yeah, I’m also thinking of letting you buy me a hole punch,” Mickey added, deciding the guy could use a little shaking up. 

Mickey smiled when Ian choked slightly on his snack, but the smile slowly slid off his face when Ian brought the stick to his mouth again. It slipped past his lips, pausing briefly as he glanced down at his paperwork, like he was thinking about it deeply. 

His mouth opened enough that Mickey could see his tongue moving slowly over the food before his straight, white teeth snipped off a bit. 

"You sure you don't want to try?" Ian asked. “You seem interested.” 

Mickey eyed it skeptically, but he felt something like curiosity rear its head. “I like my meat to be...meat.”

Ian leaned forward, offering Mickey the stick that had just been in his mouth. He thought of sex. Again. "I know how you love pilfering through my food,” Ian commented. “No point in chickening out, now." 

Mickey's eyebrows were offended on his behalf. "That's how it's gonna be, huh?" He grabbed the stick out of Ian’s hand and shoved the remaining two inches into his mouth while maintaining defiant eye contact. 

"Now you can say there was no meat too mysterious for you to handle." Ian chuckled and his twinkly eyes were back. 

"Next time gimme more than two inches, Ian." Mickey cocked his head to the side in challenge. 

Ian looked a little out of his league, but he didn’t back down. "I'm glad that you could handle my meat, Mickey." The fun, playful moment was underscored by the blush on his cheeks that bloomed almost out of control when he added, “Or should I say my tofurkey jerky?” 

Bile rose up in Mickey’s throat. “Yer what?” he asked around the fucking tofu in his mouth. 

Before Mickey could swallow, the tinkling sound of the front door opening interrupted them. Ian stood up in surprise, and Mickey pushed out of his chair intending to deal with whoever had arrived. The one part of being a fucking secretary that he liked was that he got to be the bouncer for the place. 

Turning toward Ian’s office door, he added over his shoulder. “I got this, man. Get back to your, uh,” he hesitated, “stealing from the rich to give to the poor thing. I’ll let you know who’s rolled up.” 

He made his way into the reception area, sensing Ian behind him and wondering if the guy still didn’t trust him. Before he could decide if he was pissed about that or not, he was face to face with some pretty boy and what appeared to be his resting dick face. 

"Who're you?" Dick face asked like he was the fucking secretary here not Mickey. 

Crossing his arms, Mickey made damn sure his biceps were on full display. “I’m the fucker who makes sure Gallagher doesn’t have to waste his time with any bullshit. So, you can take your End Times pamphlet and hit the road.” 

“My what?” Dick Face looked confused. 

“You’re a Mormon or some shit, ain’t ya? Got that--” Mickey paused to wave a few tattooed fingers over the general area of his face, “holier than thou look.” 

Dick face raised his less than impressive eyebrows. “I’m Ian’s brother, dude.” 

“So you’re not a Mormon?” Mickey offered the guy a doubtful look while eyeing the paper in his hand. 

“Thanks, Mickey,” Ian said from behind him. “This actually is my brother. Lip. And this is my--Mickey.” 

“Your Mickey?” Lip asked. 

_Your Mickey._

“You? You’re his new secretary?” Lip started to smile, and Mickey flexed his biceps in preparation for shutting down this conversation, while making a mental note to talk to Ian about giving him a different job title. “I thought Mickey was a girl.” 

“Funny, I thought the same thing about you when you walked in the door.” 

Mickey felt a hand on his shoulder and glanced fleetingly at the tips of Ian’s fingers where they pressed into his flesh. “What’s up, Lip?” Ian asked but his hand remained on Mickey’s shoulder. Warm and firm and now the center of Mickey’s attention. 

Lip waved the piece of paper in his hand at Ian. "Have you heard from Frank?" 

Ian released Mickey’s shoulder, stepping around him to get closer to his brother. “No. We looked for him at The Corner Bar, but he wasn’t there.” 

“We?” Lip asked, flicking a look at Mickey. 

“Yes. Why? Has something happened?” Ian’s voice was laced with the ever present anxiety, making Mickey want to toss this Lip guy out on his ass. Couldn’t Ian’s siblings take it from here? Ian had insured them out the wazoo. They could fucking help out. “I double checked our policy. We’re protected if Frank’s lawyer decided to push on the lawsuit.” 

“That’s what he’s decided to do,” Lip said, shoving the paper into Ian’s chest. “File a claim with the insurance company.” 

"Does this asshole live in the house?" Mickey asked Ian. 

"No. The house is covered, so he's trying to collect the insurance, instead of suing Fiona." Ian turned toward the back of the office. “Be right back.” 

“The monthly payments are going to increase. By a lot!” Lip yelled after the disappearing redhead. “We can barely afford what we’re paying now, Ian.” 

“Lip, I’m working on getting more clients so I--” 

Mickey cut him off. “Do whatever you’re doing, Ian. I’ll entertain him.” He shoved a thumb in Lip’s direction as Ian sprinted from the room. Whatever Ian was about to say sounded too much like he was taking all the fucking responsibility for shit. “Why don’t you have a seat?” 

When Lip continued to stand, Mickey waved at the blue ergonomic guest chairs. 

“Take a load off, man,” Mickey added, pointing at the stack of _Insurance Monthly_ magazines. “Some great reading material to keep you occupied while your brother runs himself ragged.” 

Lip let out a deep sigh, dragging a knuckle over his upper lip. “Sure.” Flopping into the nearest blue contraption, he nearly kneed himself in the face when he sunk into the cushion. 

Mickey turned away, hiding his pleased smile. “Can I get you a cappuccino?” 

“Ah, okay.” 

As he inserted a pod into the machine, Mickey glanced over at Lip, who was wiggling his ass trying to figure out how to sit in the chair. Mickey whistled a low tune while the milk frothed. He kind of loved his job sometimes.

“Okay,” Ian said, returning slightly breathless, carrying the thick Gallagher file. He’d ditched his suit jacket, and Mickey was getting an eyeful of what went on under his crisp white dress shirt. “Oh, I see Mickey is making you a coffee.” 

“Would you like one, too?” 

Ian stopped flipping through his folder to glance at Mickey, and it was like the last ten minutes of Ian’s life had never happened. Anxiety disappeared. “Yes, please.” 

“You got it, Boss. Extra foam, yeah?” 

Mickey turned back to the machine, hoping Lip understood. Ian wasn’t some schmuck that he could push around or dump all his troubles on. Not while Mickey was on the fucking job anyway. 

Lip jumped right back into his whining though. "Frank’s insurance claim isn’t all, Ian. His ambulance chaser made sure the insurance company knew that our house was in serious fucking disrepair, and they sent an inspector out." Lip tried to get up, but the chair sucked him back down. Mickey smiled at him. 

“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.” Mickey pointed at the mug sitting on the coaster in front of Lip. He picked it up and slurped delicately but pulled back with a wince. 

“Fuck. That’s hot.” 

“Oh yeah,” Mickey commented. “Don’t forget to blow, man.” 

Ian was fanning the entire folder out on Mickey’s desk when he set the coffee mug down beside him. “So, what did the inspector say?” Ian asked barely noticing the way Mickey had topped the cappuccino foam with a touch of espresso, so the first sip was perfect. Mickey eyed it longingly, thinking he might have a bit of an addiction. 

"That we have to do some major remodeling, including ripping out the entire front porch, or they'd cancel our insurance." 

Ian shook his head as his paper shuffling got more frantic. "They can't do that." 

"They seem to think that they can. And you know that once winter hits, Frank's going to be breakdancing on our front steps every fucking day til he DOES break something worth suing over. Then he's got us over a fucking barrel, Ian. He'll take everything. You fucking know he will." Lip was on a roll. “He turned us in to child services; he’s not gonna hesitate to take the house if he can.” 

“Yeah,” Ian said so quietly Mickey could barely hear him. Jesus, fuck. He thought his old man was a fucker. 

"So what are we supposed to do about this, Ian? You said we were protected." 

Mickey wanted to stuff a fucking sock down Lip’s throat to shut him up. Instead he decided to try a more helpful approach. Fucking Gallagher’s Good Samaritan shit was rubbing off on him. "Frank ain't gonna collect shit." 

"You don’t know Frank," Lip said, scowling slightly at him. “No idea what you’re dealing with.” 

But an idea had already formed in Mickey's head, one he knew he'd be able to carry out flawlessly.


	14. Chapter 14

_Friday, September 13th. Day 10._

“Look, _Lip_ ,” Mickey began, “I may seem like an upstanding citizen.” 

He paused when Ian snickered around the mug he was lightly blowing into. With one responding lift of his eyebrows, he continued. “But I haven’t always been a fucking secretary. In fact, I may have done my share of non-legal shit.” 

Ian straightened up a little, probably wondering _how_ illegal he was talking. 

“So, you’re suggesting we do something illegal to stop Frank from doing something illegal?” Lip asked, knocking over the stack of magazines as he finally got himself up muttering about the weird goddamn chairs. 

"No. I’m suggesting that I know how this fucker thinks, and I know how to be convincing,” he said, scooping up the magazines and tapping them on the coffee table to align the edges. “That trip we made to the shit hole hipster bar was meant to catch him doing shit he shouldn’t be able to do with his fake ass injury, right?” 

When he got no response, he glanced up at Ian who was staring at the magazines he’d just set in the center of the table. Their eyes met, and Mickey nearly toppled over at the admiration on Ian’s face. What the… 

“You guys tried to catch Frank in the act?” Lip interrupted whatever was happening between them. “Ian?” 

“Oh, yeah, but he wasn’t there.” 

“That’s what I’m talking ‘bout, man.” Mickey drew Ian’s attention back to him. “We need to make fucking sure we catch Frank in the act, not wait around for the asshole to fuck up. Know what I mean?” 

“Set him up?” Ian nodded, each tip of his head more assured than the one before. “Yeah. Shit, Mickey, that’s a great idea.” 

In his element now, Mickey turned to Lip. "How soon's this shit gotta be handled? The construction?"

“Sixty days from the date of the letter, so end of October, essentially. But it could be October 20 fucking 30 and we’d never be able to come up with cash to do everything on the list.”

"I've got a few new clients,” Ian began.

“Yeah,” Lip smiled. “You bagged that bridge player, did ya?”

Ian turned to the papers on his desk. “No, not exactly.”

“What? You spent so much fucking time learning to play bridge, I thought you were going to go pro.”

Mickey knocked a knuckle against his nose in anger. Fuck’s sake, this was his fault. Why did he always have to come in swinging? Reluctantly, he realized that he’d been so sure that he would be canned before the end of day one that he had wanted to give his new boss a good reason to send him packing. A reason that wasn’t just because Mickey wasn’t worth keeping around.

Shit, where’d that thought come from? 

“Between labor and supplies, we’re looking at nearly $10,000 by my estimates.” 

Ian was still silent, and Mickey could see that Lip was getting pissed off over being ignored. “Ay, I know some guys.” 

"Even if labor were free, we still have all the materials to pay for. And we need cash for it NOW," Lip disagreed. 

“I said I know some guys. These guys know some guys who can get stuff,” Mickey moved around his desk so he could see Ian’s face. “Real cheap.” 

Ian looked up at him. 

“Stuff that falls off the back of a truck?” Lip asked. 

Without breaking eye contact with Mickey, Ian spoke to his brother. “Mickey and I will handle this. Gimme a day or two, okay, Lip?”

“Ian,” Lip said, warning dripping from his voice. “Do you know who you’re getting mixed up with?” 

“I do.” 

Mickey didn’t know exactly what was happening because he was terrified to think too hard about it, but it felt like...trust. Ian was trusting him. And Mickey had some ideas, some shit he needed to do. 

“Fine. Fuck, I got classes starting now anyway. No time to worry about this shit, but be fucking careful, Ian. Last thing we need is for you to lose your mind again and do something dumb.” 

Mickey’s head snapped to the left, to the doorway where Lip was standing. “Fuck did you say?” 

“What?” Lip looked surprised at Mickey’s tone. “I said we don’t need Ian--” 

“Be careful.” Mickey could feel his heart rate increase as adrenaline sped through his system. 

“I’m just trying to warn Ian to think about what he’s doing.” 

Mickey actually snorted. “You fucking serious, man? That’s all the guy fucking does.” 

Ian’s fingers were back on Mickey’s shoulder. “Hey, we got this, Lip. I’ll be in touch.”

Something changed in Lip’s expression. “Sorry, I didn’t mean...you know?” 

“Sure.” Ian didn’t seem upset, so Mickey relaxed under his touch. 

“I’ll leave you and...your Mickey,” and this time, Lip clearly thought he understood what this meant, “to it then.” 

As the door closed behind him, Ian flopped down into Mickey’s chair behind the reception desk. "You really think this'll work? Still need money. Always need fucking money." 

Mickey could see the sadness and doubt that seemed to be his constant companion, and once again, a curl of guilt formed in his gut over fucking up his chances with the old lady. 

"Ay," Mickey caught his attention. "We already worked this out. You don't have to keep torturing yourself. We crush this, and it's done. We move on." 

He was going for chipper, probably coming off as deluded, but it worked on Ian who seemed to believe in some sort of good vs evil shit. Made Mickey want to don a fucking cape. Without thinking too much about it, he crouched down in front of Ian, placing his palms flat on his bent knees where the dark blue fabric of his dress pants was pulled tight. He ignored the warmth that traveled up his arms at the touch and focused on how his touch seemed to halt Ian’s shaking legs while drawing his eyes down to Mickey’s fingers. 

They both watched as Ian traced one finger tip over the lettering tattooed on Mickey’s knuckles. After completing the final line in the “K”, he glanced up at Mickey with a little smile. “I believe you, Mickey.” 

And while Mickey decided that he was going to get Ian the contract with Buffy, whatever it took, Ian leaned forward and placed his lips on Mickey's. His hand cupped the back of Mickey's head, keeping him close while Mickey straightened up so he had better access. A barely audible sigh of relief passed between them, and Mickey wasn’t sure which one of them made the noise. 

Ian pulled his head back like he’d been stung. 

Mickey's eyes were barely open as a smirk pulled at the side of his lips. "Damn, Gallagher, that was--" 

“Wrong!” 

"Nah..." Mickey leaned in closer, his eyes closing again. 

"Mickey, I’m your--" 

Ian’s cell phone in his office rang. 

"Ignore it." Mickey's tone was firm. 

"That could be Fiona with news about Frank..." Ian was clearly looking for excuses to pull himself away from Mickey's grasp. "Or it could be Buffy...telling me she is going in a different direction." 

Mickey sighed. Exasperated, he sat back on his legs as Ian made his escape. While he watched the guy disappear into his office, he was surprised to find that he was more concerned that Ian was adding a new layer of guilt to his conscience than he was at the abrupt termination of what had been a promising kiss. 

He could see the top of Ian's head through the window from where he was still crouched, deciding how to handle this new situation. Pulling himself up with strong arms, he stood in front of the window and watched Ian answer his phone, lips moving as he spoke. 

Ian glanced up at his secretary, then quickly looked away in embarrassment, but that didn’t stop Mickey from continuing to stare, making damn sure the redhead could feel his desire through the pain of glass. Mickey could see it now: By the end of that phone call, Ian would be ready for a guilt spiral over what had happened between them. Probably send himself on a weekend retreat to a monastery, listening to some self-shaming pep talk extolling the virtues of a sexual harassment-free workplace. 

Well, as far as Mickey was concerned, it was only harassment if one party felt coerced. Mickey was feeling a lot of shit at the moment, but that wasn’t one of the sensations traveling through his body. Far from it. He was feeling almost...free. 

But also like he was under the gun. If he didn’t make his move now, Ian was going to veer too far off the tracks, and Mickey might not get him headed back in the right direction. 

He ran a slow hand down his chest, over the worn black t-shirt, pausing at his stomach, and traced his thumb over his abdominals, feeling them tighten in response when Ian's eyes caught the movement in his periphery. His head was dipped low, eyes watching Mickey through soft, translucent lashes, but when his lips stopped moving as he trailed off mid-sentence, Mickey knew he was struggling to focus on his call. 

Mickey walked slowly to his desk, giving Ian plenty of time to check him out from behind, then he lowered himself into the chair that Ian had vacated, swiveling toward the guy, but not making eye contact. He reclined, head lolling against the chair back, and released a deep exhale that wasn’t for show. His body was tingling slightly in anticipation of what he was about to do while Ian watched him. 

He brought his hand to the back of his neck, massaging firmly so that his bicep would flex in response. It wasn’t a secret to him what his best features were, and he was going to make sure that Ian knew what they were too. 

Peeking at Ian to confirm he had the man’s attention, Mickey dropped his hand to his crotch, making a slow pass so his palm could shape the rising bulge, nerves catching fire. When the fire moved to his gut, he pressed down again, this time stroking casually back and forth with an open hand as his eyes drifted shut on images of red hair and an ice blue tie. 

Footsteps returned to the lobby, and his fingers closed around the half-mast erection. With as tight a grip as he could manage through loose jeans, he pulled once, rotating his hips backwards in tandem then opened his eyes. 

Ian was standing next to his office wall, watching Mickey darkly as his hand closed around his silky tie, but when their eyes met, he advanced. His stride slow, like a skilled predator stalking his prey, and Mickey’s chest fluttered in response while his hand moved faster, a dead giveaway to Ian what he was doing behind the desk. 

When Ian reached the side of Mickey's desk, the brunet rotated his swivel chair to face him. He slid one foot forward, out to the right. His left leg spread itself open, leaving his performance on full display. 

Ian's expression was unreadable, but Mickey decided that the cold detachment was a temporary cover for the fire consuming him. It better be. 

"Get up." 

Mickey grinned salaciously and jerked himself a little bit faster. “Little busy at the moment.” 

Ian held firm. "I said... get up."

Mickey reveled in the play. "Yeah, I heard you." A grunt escaped his lips when the fabric covering his now out of control erection pulled tight and Ian’s eyes basically undressed him. To help the guy out, Mickey pulled the material tighter, offering a clear outline of how hard he was. 

"You don't want to disobey me, Mickey." Ian's voice was full of dark intentions. “I’d hate to have to punish you.” 

Goddamn, Mickey did not want to disobey him. In fact, he wanted to make Ian happy, see him happy and know it was because of him, have it directed straight at him. The thought was swamping his entire body, drawing him toward Ian until he was on his feet, arms dangling at his sides as he waited. 

Ian was watching him closely. He could see tiny creases form around his eyes as he watched, and Mickey dropped his eyes to Ian’s chest. For a second his brain tried to tell him that it was too submissive, too fucking gay, but Ian’s chest was rising and falling so rapidly that the sight replaced his doubt. 

In fact, he stepped closer to Ian, putting him in range of Ian’s hands, which he was going to beg for if he didn’t feel them soon. Mickey continued to stare at Ian’s chest, willing him to make a move so he didn’t have to. Instinct told him that’s not how it was meant to go down between them. But his dick was really fucking impatient now. 

“Good,” Ian said, drawing Mickey’s eyes upward toward his face. First, they traveled along the faint geometric pattern on his tie, stopping at the tight knot closed around Ian’s throat then over the muscles moving as he swallowed and finally landing on his mouth. 

“I want to watch you finish,” Ian said, stepping away from the reception desk toward the big bay window. With his back to Mickey, he snapped the blinds closed then reached for the deadbolt on the front door. The snick of that sound sent a jolt through Mickey’s body. 

“Come here, Mickey,” he commanded without turning around. 

Mickey closed the distance, thinking he was finally going to have Ian’s hands on him, but when he arrived, Ian didn’t touch him. “Undo your zipper.”

Looking at the space that still remained between them, Mickey asked challengingly, “Why don’t you do it for me?”

“Because I asked you to do it.” Ian was watching him, eyes like slits as they bore into Mickey’s.

“Make me,” Mickey whispered so quietly, he wasn’t even sure Ian could hear it, but he must have because Ian suddenly pinned him to the wall with a muscled forearm to his collarbone. The movement caught Mickey off guard since he hadn’t really expected Ian to follow through, at least not so forcefully. 

Mickey finally lifted his eyes to Ian’s and knew his own must have widened to twice their usual size because the Ian he’d known the last week seemed to have left the building. This new Ian was staring at Mickey, waiting for him to defy Ian’s instruction, ready to pounce. 

This Ian looked dangerous.

Fuck, okay. Mickey flipped open the button on his jeans then lowered the zipper, eyes on Ian’s, skin hot where Ian’s bare arm pressed against him. The warmth disappeared when Ian lifted his arm above Mickey’s head, palm flat against the door. Watching Ian’s eyes slide down his body, Mickey pushed a hand inside his underwear.

“Show me," Ian whispered, voice wild with that dangerous element, forcing Mickey to part his lips on the panting breath that needed to escape. 

His hand was moving inside his boxers, looking for relief as much as for a way to get Ian to continue to take control. A part of him was still reluctant to ask directly, to let the redhead know that he _wanted_ Ian to fucking order him do things. 

He pushed the material out of the way, freeing his hand and exposing himself to both their gazes. This had to be in his Top Five best jerk offs of all time, and he’d barely begun. 

“Faster,” Ian’s voice was full of command now and Mickey had to brace a hand on Ian’s chest as the drum of his heartbeat pounded loudly in his ears. When his fingers landed on the silky tie, they closed around it, gripping tightly. 

There was something so...perfect about the picture it made. The street smart message he’d carved into his skin before he’d even hit puberty was in such stark contrast to the sophisticated material covering his boss’s body. 

"Slide all the way down to the base."

Mickey wasn’t expecting that and his ragged breathing caught in his throat. "Okay." His sensations were so heightened that he would have agreed to anything. God damn, he wanted to agree to everything, the kinkier the better. 

"Twist,” Ian slurred. “Yeah, fuck, just like that." 

Ian’s hand was still pressed against the door, and Mickey was unable to move his gaze past Ian’s mouth to meet his eyes. They felt like a danger zone, a place where Mickey could actually see himself begging for it. 

“I wanna watch you do this every day.” Ian closed the gap enough that the knuckles of Mickey’s blurred fist rubbed along the front of Ian’s jeans, and Mickey’s hand yanked on the silky tie pulling Ian’s lips close to his. They breathed into each other as Mickey's orgasm hit him hard, unexpected.  
He felt warmth cover his hand and his forehead dropped to Ian’s shoulder as his heart slowed its pace, only to pick up speed again when Ian’s voice filled his ear.

“Thank you, Mickey.” 

Then the redhead slid his hand along his tie, extricating it from Mickey’s grip before slipping away entirely, so he could walk toward his office. Mickey heard the nick of the office door closing behind him, but he couldn’t find the wherewithal to turn around and watch. Instead, he leaned against the door, sweat running down his spine as he relived what had just happened.

Deciding that it was definitely the best jerk off he’d ever given himself, he knew that if Ian wanted to watch him do that every fucking day, he’d count himself lucky.


	15. Chapter 15

Artwork by [Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/steorie).


	16. Chapter 16

_Friday, September 13th. Day 10._

By the time lunch rolled around, Ian felt spent from reliving their steamy encounter in the reception area. Over and over and over. From every angle, including the one where his mind torturously added in alternate endings, where an eager Mickey had finished Ian off as well. Where a desperate Ian had kissed him. Where both of those things happened simultaneously. 

That just created more tension in his groin and left him wondering if he could find a way to continue what they’d started, but that idea was consistently drowned out by all the screaming arguments in his mind.

The argument that Mickey had instigated this unprofessional act, semi-jerking himself at his desk, and right in front of the open blinds with an unlocked door! Ian had been sure that Mickey was doing it on purpose just to get a rise out of him. Well, it got a rise out of him all right. 

Then there was the argument that Ian was now one of those employers, on the sexual-inappropriateness-with-an-employee list. But he just felt so strong and focused, so sure of himself in that moment, which now sitting at his desk, familiar paperwork spread in front of him, seemed shocking. But clearly not shocking enough to stop him from daydreaming--no this was more than daydreaming, he admitted to himself, this was planning. He was planning to do more. 

Shit! 

He envisioned Mickey misfiling documents or leaving a coffee stain on the wood desk, and Ian catching him in the progress. He’d look up at Ian, so obviously unashamed, a smug look on his face. "What're you gonna do about it?" That smug expression turned sultry. 

And that was the point at which Ian kept faltering in his thoughts because whatever was lurking in his subconscious where this man was concerned, it involved Ian’s closet full of ties and his extensive knowledge of knots. Never in his entire life had he entertained these kinds of thoughts, so it was disconcerting to discover how powerful each image was. 

While his mind catalogued the colorful rainbow of ties he owned, his fingers ran along the tie currently knotted around his neck, remembering the smooth textures and imagining how they’d feel against Mickey’s skin. 

"Yo, Captain Calculator." 

Ian whipped his head to the left, finding Mickey in the doorframe. The knowing smile on his face matching the blush on Ian’s face. 

"Gotta make a run for lunch. That all right?" 

"Sure." Ian didn't want to press for personal info since they were doing so much better. There was a pleasantly intimate bond between them now, a surprising side effect of the morning’s events. Ian sensed that they both felt it, and along with it, the surprising conviction that he was safe to trust Mickey, so grilling Mickey on his workday whereabouts just felt wrong. Unnecessary. 

While Ian continued to stare at his secretary and absorb this new-found awareness, Mickey rested a hip on the edge of Ian’s desk. Leg swinging lightly so the toes of his heavy work boots nudged Ian’s shin with each movement. 

"I can bring you something back," Mickey said letting Ian know that he was taking his responsibilities seriously. 

“What kind of food are you picking up?” Ian asked, unsure how he was able to have a normal conversation when his brain was swamped with so many new bits of information. 

Mickey hummed, while his free hand spun Ian’s rolodex, most of the little address cards empty. Yet to be filled with clients. He’d found it at a garage sale shortly after opening ICG and felt like having it sitting on his desk, slowly filling it with names, would somehow inspire him to keep at it. 

As the rolodex continued to spin, Mickey licked his lips thoughtfully, capturing Ian’s attention. “Well, I ain’t going into that fucking tofu joint, that I can tell you.” 

Ian snickered, probably looking at Mickey like a lovesick puppy at the moment. He was so fucking attractive, that it was sort of ridiculous. “How ‘bout a sub? Extra tofu on yours.” 

“Yum,” Ian agreed as his shin bounced off Mickey’s boot again. 

“Okay, man,” Mickey said getting ready to leave, and Ian had some sort of psychic intuition that he was giving Ian a chance to do something, anything. 

What he wanted to do was stand up and force Mickey’s back onto his desk, but what he did instead was shift his foot enough that when that boot arched toward him again, he could capture it between both of his knees and hold Mickey in place. He squeezed his knees. “I want ham.” 

“Yeah? Finally some real meat.” They were looking at each other now. “Don’t get in any trouble while I’m gone, ‘kay, Boss?” 

Mickey pried his foot out from between Ian’s legs and stood up. All of Ian’s thoughts about apologizing for his behavior, all of the promises that had been on his lips to never behave that way again, they all dissolved. There was absolutely nothing in Mickey’s demeanor to suggest that he wasn’t fully on-board with whatever was happening between them. 

Now it was up to Ian to conquer his own demons, his fear of failure. His fear of losing his business and being nothing, of living every moment with anxiety and fear. All the shit he felt was somehow tied up in the decisions he made regarding his secretary. 

“Hey,” Ian said, tossing his keys at an unsuspecting Mickey. “Take my car.” 

As Mickey walked away, lingering a moment at the doorway to Ian's office, his eyes drew up and down Ian, leaving a trail of heat behind. Those demons were shrinking under his gaze. 

With a little salute, Mickey walked out and Ian frowned at the small card in Mickey’s hand. He eyed his rolodex but couldn’t imagine what Mickey would want with that. 

\------

When Mickey returned over an hour later with the subs, explaining without prompting from Ian that Subway needed to get its shit together because it shouldn’t take that fucking long to toss a ridiculous amount of lettuce on a bun, they just naturally sat together in the blue ergonomic chairs to eat lunch. 

Ian couldn’t keep the grin off his face each time Mickey adjusted his body to fit better, his feet dangling a little when they failed to reach the floor. Stuffing his ham sub in his mouth, Ian sat perfectly still pretending that he had mastered the art of sitting in them, but his ass was falling asleep. 

While they ate and pretended that every glance between them wasn’t sexually-charged, they put together a basic plan for how to take down Frank and decided that they needed to put the plan in motion sooner rather than later. Since there were no clients on the agenda and since it was Friday afternoon, Ian was cool with shutting down early. 

Forwarding the business calls to his cell and tidying up their lunch mess, Ian waited at the front door for Mickey to finish washing mugs and tidying the coffee station. If Ian had not known what his ideal man looked like, he sure knew now. Everything about this man set him on fucking fire.

“What?” Mickey scowled at him when he felt Ian’s intense gaze. “Monday mornings are the worst, gonna want a clean mug.” 

“Oh, so you’re planning to come in before noon on Monday?” Ian challenged but even he could hear the teasing in his voice. 

“Planning and executing are two different things, Ian, but yeah.” He’d arrived at the front door and stopped a couple feet from Ian. “Someone has to keep this place running.” 

“You are doing an amazing job.” Surprisingly, Ian believed that. “Best secretary I’ve ever had.” 

Mickey shoved a palm into Ian’s chest, pushing him out the door. “About that…”

He was cut off by the loud music coming from the neighboring business. It was some sort of Celtic harmony laced with… 

“Are those fucking whales?” 

“I think so,” Ian agreed as they stood on the porch listening. “Maybe like whales mating?” 

“I can barely stand the sound of humans mating, not interested in fish doing it.” 

Some of the frustration drained from Ian as it always did when Mickey reacted to a situation. It was like his extreme reaction took all of Ian’s along with it and he no longer had to deal with it. Then as fast as Mickey snarked, he let it go. 

“Shit, we should just be glad your place has good insulation, or we’d be hearing those whales fucking all day.” 

“Good point.” 

“Where’d you park your excuse for a car, man?” They searched the road running along the front of the building. It was lined with vehicles, but none of them were a royal blue Prius. “Shit, is that hippie chick having a whale orgy or some shit? How’s she get so many people to sign up for her crazy shit?” 

Ian’s anger tried to resurface. He’d asked her to please leave a spot in front of his place in case he had a client arriving, but if he had, they would need to park at least a block away. Where he’d parked. 

“Come on, Ian, let’s get outta here before we end up getting lured in.” Mickey shoved another hand into his chest turning him toward the sidewalk this time. “Wonder what a whale dick looks like anyway.” 

Ian looked over his shoulder at the other man, at his pondering face as it looked suspiciously at The Radiant Divine front door, and he decided that he wasn’t letting any of this bullshit ruin his day. 

“I’m parked a block away.” 

Their first stop had them at the Alibi bar not far from Ian's childhood home and also the most likely spot to find an inebriated Frank on any given day. 

They were greeted loudly by an enthusiastic woman full of energy and smiles. "Ian! My love! It's been too long since you've come to see me!" Her tone morphed instantly into one of disdain and annoyance. "Should've seen this place a week ago. Frank nearly had us shut down. Mouthy old bastard." She wiped down the bar with aggression. 

"Actually, we were looking for Frank. Hoped you'd know where we could find him." Ian pulled up a stool at the bar and gestured to his companion. "Vee. This is Mickey. He works with me," Ian worded carefully. 

Vee studied the brunet, tilting her head back in consideration. "You look so familiar, Mickey...do I know your mama?" 

Mickey shrugged, and Ian wondered where exactly he’d grown up. They hadn’t had any conversations about Mickey’s life, he realized and wondered how he could have been so self-absorbed. Whatever the guy was thinking at the moment was clearly making him uncomfortable, so Ian derailed the woman. 

“About Frank,” he prompted. 

Vee returned to her previous thought. "This man drags his scrawny, homeless ass in here causing a SCENE, Ian. And you know how we look the other way for our regulars..." 

The tall, muscular man returning to the bar with an empty serving tray countered, 

"Babe, you've kicked out four regulars this month." 

"And they deserved it!" 

Ian tried to get back on track, silently waving away Kev's offer of an on the house drink. Kev began to fill him a mug anyway, with a wink. 

"Vee, I've been trying to find Frank, and it's important. I figured he'd be at the Corner Bar, if not here." Ian accepted the mug but slid it nonchalantly toward Mickey. 

"Yeah, cause they're the only place in town left who'll put up with him. Like to see them have to replace a window AND a urinal in one day!" The four of them glanced over to the large sheet of cardboard fastened to the empty window pane with duct tape. 

"Has he mentioned anything he has coming up? Any big plans? Cons?" Ian looked between Vee and Kev. "Everyone knows Frank runs his mouth to anyone who'll listen."  
Kev placed a second drink in front of him. "He did mention having just come from Stella’s bed, but that was just his way of egging on Howard". 

"Who's Stella?" asked Mickey. 

Vee answered, “Howard’s wife.” 

“Who’s Howard?” 

Kev answered, "He's the guy that threw Frank through the window. He’s over there." 

Mickey stood up, beer in hand. “Come on, Ian, let’s have a chat with Howie. No one is easier to pull info out of than a man scorned.” 

“Especially if he’s drunk.”


	17. Chapter 17

_Friday, September 13th. Day 10._

Standing in the alley across from Giordano’s Bistro at the corner of Jackson Blvd. and Franklin St., Ian was feeling pleasantly buzzed from his two complimentary beers. Mickey appeared to be warm from his four. 

It amazed Ian that he was okay with the two of them having a casual drink during the workday. Granted it could have been due to the way Mickey's Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he had gulped each one, or the way he swiped a knuckle over his bottom lip after each drink. 

Or maybe it was the mouth-watering aroma of the pizza currently wafting through Giordano’s door with each passing customer, but he just couldn't care to chastise himself for it. 

Looking over at Mickey now, all relaxed and pliable leaning against the old, weather-worn exterior of the building located just down the block from the Willis Tower, Ian’s pleasant buzz was fast becoming something more as it traveled down his body toward areas that were now very much connected with Mickey in his mind. 

"Good call talking to Howard,” Ian said to get his mind off the fact he’d been dealing with low level horniness all day.” I should've figured Frank would try this shit again. His old fallback." He pointed at the sorry sight of Frank Gallagher chatting up a small crowd of tourists, just shy of the entrance to the famous landmark. 

Frank Gallagher had gone all out in his guise, two temporary leg braces to support his gauze-wrapped bare feet as he reclined in a wheelchair. He was struggling to make pathetic eye contact with his marks because of the wide neck brace he’d wrapped around himself. 

“He needs a spine brace,” Ian mumbled more to himself. “Since he doesn’t have one.” 

Mickey chuckled. "I've seen better fake wounded war vets. No one's gonna buy this shit." Mickey shook his head in disgust. "'Sides, what kind of war would his old ass have returned from with wounds that fresh? He's not even trying." 

"You'd be surprised what Frank has gotten away with. Some people even find him charming." 

Ian was hit again with the aroma of Italian cooking as two middle aged women exited the restaurant. One of them hadn’t noticed Frank and his pilfered wheelchair, so the door lightly nudged him, and he howled like he’d been beaten with a club. 

“See what you mean,” Mickey concluded, nodding almost impressed as the two women swarmed the con artist in an attempt to apologize. 

"Well, he’s had like 50 years of practice. He used to bring us here as kids. When Fiona got old enough and refused to do it, he started bringing me along with Lip. He'd complain that he couldn't do The Missing Engagement Ring con anymore, but at least having me around made it easier to do The Mustard Drip." 

"Why's that?" Mickey turned toward him in interest. 

"Apparently I looked like a boy scout." He smiled at Mickey, shrugging once. "Guess I have a trustworthy face." 

Mickey nudged his nose to hide his laugh. "That you do, Gallagher... wait, the fuck is a Mustard Drip?" 

"It's when you distract them and squirt mustard onto their suit jackets, and when you help them clean it off, you snatch their wallets." 

"Lame." 

"It worked most of the time." Their attention returned to Frank and the money the two women were offering him. 

"You probably looked like a cabbage patch doll as a kid. I bet they ate that shit up." 

Ignoring that comment because it was entirely too accurate, he thought back to all the scams that made up their childhood. "There was other stuff, too, like..." Ian recounted with each finger, "Travel insurance fraud, selling off those free music magazines to tourists for $5 a pop, the Melon Drop..." 

Mickey looked at Ian, demanding another explanation with his silent face. 

"You take broken glass shards and tape them up in a box. We'd wrap it with old Christmas paper from the neighbor's," Ian supplied. "You bump into a tourist who isn't paying attention, drop the box, and start crying, saying that they broke the present you had just purchased for your mom, grandma, dying relative, you know...We'd have a fake receipt made up to show them as 'proof'. Then they'd fork over the cash, usually 100 bucks or more.” 

Mickey nodded thoughtfully, lips pursing in contemplation. "Okay, not bad...I can picture Baby Ian pulling that shit off successfully." His eyes dragged down Ian's torso. "You could probably get plenty outta me. Batting those eyelashes at me like a goddamn damsel in distress...bet I'd fall for that any day." 

They held eye contact for a moment, until Frank howled again as another poor sucker exited the restaurant. A heavy-set man in an apron. _Oh shit._

"Lip was way better, though. He always got the smart kid jobs." Ian continued as they watched the man bend over Frank. His hands moved from his apron clad hips to the air in front of Frank’s face. "You know, like Three Card-Monte, except once they start betting bigger amounts, you hide the King of Spades up your sleeve?" 

"I can see your brother pulling that shit." Mickey sniffed with a touch of contempt. 

"Yeah. He got in trouble a few times, though... one time, he almost sold an abandoned building in West Garfield to a rich tourist, but before they could sign, my other brother Carl set the place on fire with a homemade flamethrower." 

Frank was trying to wheel away from the restaurant owner, but his large frame kept blowing his exit. Ian felt his heart pick up at the sight and how red Frank’s face was getting. He felt sure his deadbeat father was going to do something stupid, like stand up and tackle the other man. 

“Get your camera ready,” Mickey said, but Frank just yelled obscenities at the guy and Mickey returned his attention to their conversation. "My old man had us running shit like that, too. Takin' money, and whatnot." 

"What kind of scams did you pull?" Ian let the camera drop to his side as the owner of Giordano’s returned to his restaurant leaving only the aroma of garlic behind.  
"Sold coke and speed, firearms...kneecaps, running numbers, buying off cops...the usual." 

"Oh." Ian was wide eyed now and it had nothing to do with the way Frank was wheeling himself down Jackson Blvd like a house on fire, if the redness of his face had anything to say on the matter. 

“Guess that’s our cue,” Mickey prompted, for the third time shoving a palm into Ian’s chest to get him moving. They followed Frank west for several blocks, up and over the river. 

"You've gotta be kidding me," Mickey spat every time Frank convinced someone to push him for a block or so. 

"Wait! I think he's getting up." Frank had stopped near the pillars of the Chicago Union Station south concourse. He leaned to his side, bracing himself on the armrest of the wheelchair. 

They watched intently as Ian readied the camera again. 

Frank used his free hand to grip his bandaged foot. His head tipped back into a dramatic wail, calling the attention of two train station attendants who were vaping outside the concourse doors. 

They swarmed to Frank's aid as Ian let out a long sigh of frustration and helped him through the glass doors that led to the trains. 

"He's conning them to get on the train for free," Ian snapped. “He’s gonna get away, the dickhead.” 

"He hasn't gotten away yet, Ian,” Mickey said calmly, crossing toward the train station. Ian followed but continued to freak out. 

"But, we can't just...if we get on the train with him, he'll see us. We haven't gotten any photos of him. Damn it." As they made their way into the station, they could see several large men in uniform assist the supposedly disabled man onto the train. "It looks like he's keeping this up as long as he has to. Probably thinks he’s a fucking method actor." 

Ian's heart sank at the thought of having to do this again, of having to watch Frank fuck around with decent people all afternoon and not being able to push the asshole into the Chicago river. 

"Ian," Mickey pointed at the sign nearest the train where Frank was wailing as the attendants maneuvered him onto the platform. "Back of the Yards." 

"Fuck. FUCK!" Ian threw a hand in the air. "He's going back to the South Side where he’ll be a needle in a haystack. Make that a dirty used needle in an alley." 

Mickey smiled hugely at him, and Ian let out a laugh that released some of his dread. 

"Ian--" Mickey said, getting his full attention. "It takes the Amtrak at least thirty minutes to get there." Ian nodded. "And it'll take us fifteen by car. If we get a move on, now." 

“Shit, we’ll have to jog back to the Prius.” Ian was already headed back toward the entrance, but he paused at the door. "You're really willing to do all of this with me?" 

"Yes, it turns out I’m willing to jog for you, Ian." Mickey gave his door a good shove. “And I don’t jog for just anyone, man. So let’s do this.” 

As they stepped out into the sunshine, Ian joked, "You know, if you wanted to call this excursion off, there's an I Dream of Falafel right up the street." 

Mickey shook his head. "You and your puns, I swear to god..." 

"No, really! There is!" he insisted. "Right there up Clinton Street! Shit, now I have to take you there sometime." Ian licked his lips in anticipation of watching Mickey eat food that would put a scowl on his expressive face. 

Mickey smiled. "Fucking dork." 

"It's not nonsense, I swear!" He paused for dramatic effect. "Naansense is across the street." 

Mickey groaned as Ian laughed aloud, sprinting off ahead of him.

\------

"And that scene at the Berlin airport was alright," Mickey conceded as his eyes watched the station on Ashland for Frank’s train to arrive. "I'm not saying _Civil War_ wasn't a good movie. I'm just saying that Captain America is an old goodie two shoes in tights. Hurts my balls just watching him in that thing."

Ian nodded, ignoring the doubts that constantly nattered in his head about Frank not making it this far on the line, about him not getting on the connecting train and winding up somewhere else. 

“Now Deadpool, though…” Mickey continued, and Ian’s attention was fully caught on the idea of Mickey liking the comic book hero. 

"I can see him being more your style of superhero." 

"My brother Iggy thinks he’s the Wade Wilson out of all of us, like he could take down a jar of pickles, let alone a walking target. That dummy would Darwin Award himself outta the gene pool. Decapitate himself, or some shit." 

"But that would work out in his favor because he could just grow a new head,” Ian countered. 

Mickey snorted. "Lemme just say that my brother is more of a Deadbeat than a Deadpool. Man, he just fuckin' wishes he could be that cool. If anyone's a Deadpool, it's me." Mickey straightened in his seat, defiant expression intact. 

Ian studied him for a moment. The crossed arms, the pout, the narrowed eyes. "You're a Rocket." 

Mickey's appalled expression told Ian that he had seen enough Marvel movies to understand his reference in the exact way that he had meant it. 

"You callin' me a trash panda?" His entire body turned toward Ian. Frank and the arrival of the train all but forgotten as his honor was so obviously on the line now. 

"No, no, it's a good thing.” Ian also turned his body toward Mickey, one hand on the steering wheel and one gripping the console between them. “The raccoon's the most capable one on the whole ship, right? The most badass character on _Guardians of the Galaxy_." 

"I'm listening..." he muttered, clearly not wanting to get too excited by Ian’s excitement. 

"He's got all of this info and experience, he could lift anything of anyone in his sleep, he's the one that can handle guns the best..." 

Mickey shrugged in reluctant agreement. 

"Plus," Ian paused to brace himself. "He's so cuddly and cute." 

With his eyebrows almost in his hairline, Mickey spat, "That's it, Gallagher." 

Ian continued to laugh. "You just want to scoop him up and give him a hug!" 

Mickey very reluctantly joined him in laughter. "You're fuckin' dead!" 

Just as Mickey got his hands on Ian’s biceps, pulling his chest across the console despite the seatbelt still buckling him in place, the screech of a train’s arrival reached them and Ian sighed in annoyance. "There it is." 

They stared into the distance at the South Side station, watching as Frank finally wheeled himself through the train’s doors, surrounded by an air of self-pity like his own personal perfume line. 

Mickey tapped Ian on the arm with the back of his hand. "C'mon, let's go get him." He reached for the door handle. 

Ian hesitated. "Uh... don't you think we should follow him in the car?" 

"Nah, we need to hang a good distance back, or the jig is up. He may be shit at running scams, but I'll bet your old man ain't as dumb as he looks," Mickey concluded. “Hell, how many times has his ass been incarcerated?” 

Mickey popped open the door and hopped out, turning to peek his head back through the open door when Ian didn't budge. 

“Never,” Ian said. “Well, never for more than five minutes anyway.” 

"Exactly. What's the hold up?" He waved a hand to spur Ian on. 

"I mean...do we really want to leave the car behind? We could just drive real slow." 

Mickey scoffed. "You're worried someone's gonna jack it?" 

"Or strip it." 

"Man, it's a fuckin' Prius. No one in this neighborhood would be caught dead even looking like your white bread tree-hugger ass car." 

Ian jumped out, clicking the fob once and double checking the door handle. “Hey, it gets 54 miles to the gallon.” 

“Exactly,” Mickey muttered making his way toward the station and the wheelchair bound man. 

They only had to follow a huffing and puffing Frank for two blocks before he wheeled himself up to an old, run down building with a stoop running along the front, and no obvious way for Frank to get his fake ass crippled body up each of the eight steps. 

Even from across the street, Ian could hear Frank nagging himself audibly as he hauled himself out of the chair, tipping it over in the process. "Stay there!" he pointed at it angrily. 

He started to climb the stairs, awkwardly limping because the fake leg braces were hampering his ability to bend his knees. While Ian watched, Mickey snapped pictures with his cellphone this time. "Smile big for the camera, motherfucker." 

Ian grinned, knowing Frank was too far away to hear or see them but imagining him cussing out Mickey then hurrying off in fear of retaliation. "Looks like we got what we needed," he added when Frank helpfully glanced over his shoulder almost looking directly at the camera. 

"No, we put an end to this once and for all." Mickey eyed Ian briefly. "We see what he's up to up there, maybe it’ll be good and he'll be out of your hair forever." 

Ian beamed at his enterprising idea, feeling even more smitten than he had moments ago. Somehow everything that Mickey did today was charming the pants off Ian, and maybe he figured, that was exactly what Mickey had planned. 

While Ian daydreamed, Mickey explained, "Just because we prove he's a liar and a swindler, it ain't enough for the insurance company unless we show that his specific back injury is fake, right?" 

“Yeah, okay, the more proof we have the better.” 

Once again, Ian followed the other man across the street and up the steps to the door Frank had entered. Mickey’s gaze raked over the list of names along the buzzer. “Any of these names ring a bell, Gallagher?” 

Ian didn’t even try to maintain any distance, his chest was drawn to Mickey’s back like two magnets, and by the way Mickey pushed back slightly, he wasn’t immune either. 

“Dunlop, Choi, Hirsch?” When Ian just shrugged, he continued reading names and getting nowhere. “How about Movit Dance?” 

“I don’t know,” Ian confessed. “How would we get in anyway? Just a random buzzer?” 

“Too risky.” Mickey spun around without giving Ian any warning, so they ended up face to face. Literally. Ian could feel Mickey’s breath on his face, and his low-level horniness spun out of control. “Let’s try the fire escape, peek in some windows.”

Ian did not move. In fact, he may have crowded Mickey back against the buzzers, setting off a few. 

“Here?” he challenged Ian. “Whatever you say, boss.” 

“Fuck,” Ian stepped back, nearly falling off the top step. “Fuck.” 

Chuckling, Mickey led them around the back of the building to the fire escape. Ironically, it was in far better condition than the exterior of the building, but it still made some noise as they climbed it, stopping to peer in each window. When they reached the third-floor landing, they both paused in utter disbelief. 

Frank had lost his bandages and braces and was moving about fluidly, stretching his arms in an arch above his head then bending to touch his toes. Mickey scrambled for his cell phone, while Frank started stripping off his ragged old army fatigues to reveal a black leotard clinging to his otherwise bare body. 

Ian grimaced, stepping back against the fire escape as he scanned the rest of the room through the blinds that were cracked open over the window, just now noticing the occupants in the room sitting in old metal chairs or lined up against the ballet bar. Signs were pinned to the wall promising "How to win over the object of your desire" and "Express your sexual urges through dance". 

“What the fuck?” Ian muttered still in shock. 

“I’m gonna say jack-fucking-pot,” Mickey whispered over the snap of his cell phone’s camera app, which was going crazy capturing a very limber Frank as he warmed up for God knows what. 

An odd assortment of characters coalesced together in the tiny space, as Frank began to demonstrate some dance moves, which Ian loosely called whatever the fuck was going on in this small space. 

“That’s nasty,” Mickey said. 

“Gross,” Ian added. 

“Unnatural,” Mickey continued as Frank bent over completely, ass high in the air and a senior citizen moved into position behind him causing Ian to back away so swiftly out of fear that he’d never be horny again that the fire escape swung away from the building, then came crashing back into it. 

Mickey shouted at him when Ian started to topple over the side from the reverberation of the metal against concrete, but he felt a hand on his forearm bringing him back to safety. 

“Who’s out there?” a voice came from the slightly opened window. 

"Oh shit! Run!" Mickey yelled this time. 

They scrambled down the fire escape, taking three steps at a time as they fled the scene of what Ian would definitely consider a crime. Frank in a leotard was fucking felony. 

"You can't profit off of our freedom of expression, you perverts!" 

Mickey stopped before he could round the corner of the building and yelled up at Frank. "The fuck did you just call me, old man?" 

"You there! Hooligan! If you want to watch us, you can pay the fee just like everyone else!" 

Ian, still hidden from sight, gagged. 

"Any distribution of photos from this event classifies as profitable pornography and you haven't signed a waver!" 

"No one wants to see you doing porn, man, I guarantee it,” Mickey continued to shout and snap pictures at the grizzled old face hanging over the fire escape until Ian grabbed his shoulders and shoved him toward the adjacent back alley. 

Ian and Mickey ran down each adjoining alleyway until they were too far away to hear Frank's protests. They were out of breath, but full of exhilaration from their successful mission. 

Ian, hunched over with his hands on his knees, panted, "Tell me how to un-see that." 

“Good thing for that getup of his though, right? Otherwise we’d a had a full view of moldy old man balls.” He cackled at Ian’s disgust. 

Ian scrunched his face, then ran towards Mickey to playfully tackle him. Mickey dodged him, having somehow maintained enough energy to dart back and forth for this game of tag, while Ian tried to catch him with his long, outstretched arm. Mickey laughed when Ian's hand nabbed a fistful of fabric and yanked him backward. Ian's long arms wrapped around him and tried to box him into a hold, like he was demonstrating a wrestling move. 

Mickey flipped sideways out of his hold and their arms locked, the two of them now standing, facing each other both unwilling to release their entwined grip. Their lips found each other naturally, unaware they were about to kiss until it happened. 

They were swept up in the feeling, consumed by their attraction, mutual admiration, and feeling of belonging, so intoxicated by the kiss that they lost all sense of where they were. It just felt right. 

Their arms, still wrapped around each other tightly, moved on their own, feeling skin and firm muscles. Ian's large hand coiled itself around Mickey's head, holding him in place while their mouths fit perfectly together, again and again. 

"Come home with me," he offered, not quite ready to peel his arms away from Mickey's warm, muscular body. "To my place." 

He expected Mickey to have a quick retort about being made to walk all the way back to the Prius without any relief, hard on visible to the world, but he nodded a quick and enthusiastic confirmation. 

Ian felt victorious for the first time in as long as he could remember as they hurried back to the car, bumping shoulders and tapping at each other's arms on their way.


	18. Chapter 18

_Friday, September 13th. Day 10._

No whale sounds emanated from the townhouse next to ICG, but the front door of the place opened just as Mickey and Ian arrived at the porch. Amethyst’s smile spread over her face as she noticed them, but her attention slipped toward the man and woman who exited behind her. 

“With attention to the root chakra we can ascend to a higher spiritual plane,” she purred then proceeded to kiss the woman on the lips, lingering for a moment before cupping her face, rings twinkling in the moonlight. Her lips found the man’s and lingered there just as casually. 

Mickey and Ian were frozen where they stood. Mickey’s dark head level with Ian’s as he was on the top step. “The fuck?” he mumbled, pressing back into Ian’s chest. 

Amethyst released the couple, watching them walk away hand in hand, then returned her attention to the new arrivals. “Tantric exploration,” she purred again, soft brown eyes held them in a near trance. “Remember, gentlemen, that sex is the ultimate gateway to better intimacy.” 

Mickey stepped back, his booted foot landing between Ian’s loafers, and Ian’s hand landed on his hip, fingertips gripping him. “Ian,” he said, but Ian wasn’t sure how to respond, which left their neighbor the opportunity to reply on his behalf. 

“Not just better intimacy,” she continued, moving closer and enveloping them in a wave of what Ian thought must be incense. “Better orgasm control by distilling the essence of your knowledge of each other.” 

“Ian,” Mickey repeated. 

“Um, thanks, Amethyst, good to know!” Ian stammered, shoving Mickey up the stairs as he fumbled for the keys he was sure were in the pocket of his suit jacket. “Keys, keys.” 

“Keys,” Mickey repeated, turning slightly to look at Ian, then turning quickly back to the front door as eye contact was not what either of them were capable of at the moment. “Hurry up!” 

On some level, Ian wanted to laugh at how spooked they were. Their neighbor used the word intimacy and suddenly they were like a couple of blushing teens, if either of them could have ever claimed that label even when they were teens. 

“I’ve added live erotic demonstrations of prostate massage to my repertoire.” 

“IAN!” 

“I’m trying!” The key wouldn’t fit, what the fuck! 

“I use a live model or prop depending on client preference.” 

They nearly fell through the door when it opened.

“Let me know!” she sang and as Ian shut the door, he was sure he detected a damn twinkle in her eye. He fell back against the closed door in case she decided to follow them in and give them that live demonstration. His ass cheeks clenched at the very idea. 

“Woah.” With a rush of air from his lungs, his fingers fumbled for the light switch, but before they made contact, Mickey was pressed up against him, chest to chest, lips on his, hands dragging Ian’s jacket down his arms. 

Ian’s mind went blissfully blank. Light switch forgotten, Amethyst forgotten, live demonstrations forgotten. 

His hands held Mickey’s head in place, fingers digging into his skull as Mickey pulled Ian’s dress shirt loose from his pants, so his fingers could slide over Ian’s abs and up his chest, nearly sending Ian through the roof. 

It had been forever since he’d been touched like this and never could he recall responding the way he was now. Mickey’s mouth was warm, inviting, eager for Ian’s apparently. He was drowning in sensation, not all of it physical. 

Most of it _intimate_. 

His eyes opened, and the shift in attention stopped Mickey’s hands. Because they were so close, Ian could see the blue of Mickey’s eyes in the dim light of the office. 

_Intimate_. 

It was like they were getting their live demonstration. Of intimacy.

Mickey’s hand slid down Ian’s torso, and Ian’s mouth fell open in pleasure. But he didn’t get to do anything with it because Mickey stepped away. “Are we going upstairs?” 

“Yeah,” Ian agreed, releasing his grip on Mickey’s head and leading them toward the staircase. He could feel the other man behind him, awareness crowding his senses. Light from his kitchen illuminated the stairway and his steps slowed at the feel of a hand on his thigh. Turning to look over his shoulder, his gaze landed on the tip of Mickey’s tongue as it wet his lips and Ian groaned. Audibly, because Mickey looked up at him. 

Ian took a step down and Mickey took two up and they were face to face again. This time, Mickey wasn’t satisfied with shoving his hands up Ian’s shirt; he started working the buttons, managing to undo a couple then fumbling. 

He cursed in frustration, and Ian--in an act that would keep him up nights under ordinary circumstances--grasped the edges of his $250 Italian made-to-measure dress shirt and ripped the buttons from it, exposing his chest. He heard the tinkle of several seashell buttons hit his stairs over the low moan that escaped from Mickey’s throat. 

They met in the space between, tongues seeking each other. Mickey pushed his now destroyed dress shirt over his shoulders, the tie loose around Ian’s neck. With his arms free, Ian pulled his secretary tight against his body and turned on his heel, walking them up the remaining steps and into his tiny kitchen. 

Pausing to catch their breath, once again, the intimacy of what they were doing was like a living thing between them. Ian wondered if it would have been so intense had Amethyst not put it into his head, but now that it was there, it wasn’t going anywhere. 

He wanted to distill his knowledge of Mickey or whatever the hell she said. God, he wasn’t sure if he could handle anything but a mundane orgasm. If he extended his orgasm, he might combust or something.

Mickey seemed frozen too, watching Ian, waiting. For what? Now that Ian was aware again, he was too conscious of what he was doing and it kept him in place. Hands around Mickey’s back, body pressed to his. 

“Can I get you something to drink?” his mouth said, as though he were entertaining Buffy and her bridge partners. 

“A tea would be lovely.” 

Their eyes met and they started laughing. 

Wiping tears from his eyes, Ian stepped back. “How ‘bout a whiskey?” 

“Fuck yeah, that’ll never be a question, Ian.” 

Mickey made his way into the living room, while Ian poured two tumblers of alcohol that he hoped would ease the little bit of awkwardness that kept invading his thoughts. Standing in his kitchen, dressed in only his navy dress pants and yellow tie wasn’t helping matters. He felt like a high priced strip-o-gram. 

But he also felt fucking sexy. A feeling that he hadn’t entertained in way too long. A feeling that intensified as he walked toward his sofa and the man sitting on it. Those blue eyes were eating him up, and Ian took a long gulp of whiskey feeling it burn its way to his gut. 

Mickey accepted his glass without taking his eyes off Ian’s body. Watching him sip from the glass, Ian sat down beside him, pressing his thigh against Mickey’s jean clad one, wondering what his thighs would feel like around Ian. They were clearly strong as fuck. 

Ian took the glass from Mickey’s hand and pulled the black t-shirt over his head, then pressed against him with enough force that he fell back to the cushions and Ian spread out on top of him, shifting until his hips rested between those thighs. They immediately closed around him, and he sighed into Mickey’s mouth. 

His hips were no longer attached to his brain and began rocking into the body beneath his, picking up speed when Mickey’s hips lifted to meet his. The material between them adding to the friction, and the frustration, but Ian couldn’t stop his body from moving, imitating the action he desperately wanted to engage in. Instead, he shoved one hand under Mickey’s ass, helping to bring him closer and take control of their movements. 

Ian’s chest was tight with arousal and a need to make some desperate fucking noises, to tell Mickey all kinds of things that he didn’t even know if he had words to express. Thankfully, his mouth was busy sucking at Mickey’s lower lip. 

Unfortunately, everything about this experience was like fire in his veins. He was going to come--in his pants--and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop himself, only Mickey could stop him. He pulled his mouth away, resting his forehead on Mickey’s, eyes squeezed shut. 

“I can’t stop,” he moaned. 

“Stop? The fuck would you stop for?” 

“Cause I’m so close. Jesus.” 

“Go.” And Mickey arched up into him, head pressed to the sofa cushion beneath him as he came. Ian watched him bite his lip around a quiet gasp, and that’s all it took for the fire in his veins to light up every fucking chakra in his body like a forest fire and he collapsed. 

They were motionless for a while, coming down from the high but more so afraid to move into the space where they had to acknowledge what just happened. What it meant. What it didn’t mean. What came next. What this was exactly. 

Mickey eventually broke the ice. “I guess I’m gonna need a raise, Ian.” 

Ian pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re still on probation, Mickey.” 

They grinned, and Ian pushed up to his knees, regretfully, but Mickey reached out to wrap his fingers around Ian’s tie. His eyes travelled over each finger tattoo, then along the body spread out on his sofa beneath him, over the bare chest pink from exertion, along the thighs spread wide, over the slight stain on his jeans, then to the definite stain on Ian’s pants. 

“$300 micro twill dress pants,” he moaned. Mickey tsked in response, feigning regret. “Worth every penny though.” 

Nodding smugly, Mickey let his hand drop from Ian’s tie and land on the arm of the sofa above his head. His leg fell open a little more, and the cockiest smirk took over his face. Talk about sexy. 

“Shiiiiit,” Ian managed. Then hopped off the sofa before he lost himself again. He dashed into the bathroom, gave himself a quick wipe. By the time he was finished, Mickey was at the bathroom door, so Ian stepped aside, handing over a clean washcloth. 

“I got shit to do so we’re good to go for the renos tomorrow,” Mickey explained, eyeing Ian through the mirror as he wet the cloth. 

“Oh, can I help? Should I come with you?” He touched Mickey’s lower back, just to feel connected, now that the prospect of separation was on the table. 

“Nah, gotta meet some shady fuckers. They won’t like me bringing a strange face along. Even one that looks like yours. I’ll see you at your family’s place by 9:00 tomorrow morning with all the manpower and supplies.” He turned now to look Ian in the eye directly. “Yeah?” 

Ian knew it wasn’t a question of whether Ian would be there or whether that was a good time; it was a question of whether Ian was going to be okay with him leaving after what just happened. 

“Yeah.” The hand on Mickey’s back slipped up to the back of his head and he pulled him closer. “As long as you promise to come back here tomorrow night.”  
Mickey’s hand gripped the yellow tie still attached to Ian’s neck. “As long as _you_ promise to still be wearing this.”


	19. Chapter 19

Artwork by [Steorie](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/steorie).


	20. Chapter 20

_Saturday, September 14th. Day 11._

The first surprise of the following sunny Saturday morning at the Gallagher’s came in the form of Fiona Gallagher brandishing a large tray of chocolate chip cookies as she emerged victorious from the house, tousled curls falling out of her loose ponytail and into her face. 

“And THESE are to say thank you for your help. Just when I was startin’ to think this shit with Frank was never gonna work itself out, you show up like a knight in shining armor.” She transferred the flat sheet pan onto an opened grill off the side of the back porch, still hot to the touch, then tossed the oven mitts next to the pan so she could sweep a chunk of hair out of her eyes. “We always appreciate people willin’ to roll their sleeves up and do the dirty work… don’t we, Ian?” 

She eyed her younger brother teasingly, making it perfectly clear what the buttering up was really about, and letting him know that someone had been talking Mickey up to the household matriarch.

The second surprise of the day was who had been talking Mickey up. 

“Watch what happens,” Lip whispered to his sister then directed his attention across the yard. “Hey, Ian! Why don’t you get off your ass and come help us out for once?” Her eyes widened in surprise, but before she could respond to that, Mickey strolled up into the Lip’s personal space. 

“Wanna try that one again?” His head tilted minutely, accentuating his eyebrow propped in challenge. His sleeveless black tee gave him the perfect opportunity to flex his biceps, crossing his arms as he held ice cold, unwavering eye contact. 

Lip nearly giggled as Fiona’s grin stretched across her face. She beamed at Mickey as he stood there, in awkward confusion. “I see what you mean. Like Ian’s own personal bulldog.” 

She tucked her hands into the pockets of her jean shorts, smirking knowingly at the joke between them. Lip kept his head ducked down, swiping at his nose as he half-assed tried to wipe that smug look off his face. 

“ _Excuse me_?” Mickey eyes darted suspiciously between the two of them, the joke going way over his head. 

“Yeah, Lip. Did you call me?” Ian interrupted from his lone spot at the other end of the backyard, one hand over his cell phone, totally unaware of the situation. When Lip flipped a dismissing hand at him, Ian turned back to his phone conversation. 

Mickey spent the whole exchange checking out the tight fit of his white t-shirt and the firm curve of his ass cheeks accentuated under the kind of form-fitting jeans Mickey didn’t know Ian even owned. 

Fiona rested a hand on Mickey’s shoulder, startling him from his thoughts. “We appreciate loyalty around here, Mickey. And all of this?” She gestured to the handful of men setting up tools and workstations around the Gallagher backyard. “This is goddamn generous. We’re glad Ian’s got ya around.” 

“It’s nice to see him calm. Like a happy kind of calm, you know?” Lip asked casually around his cigarette, like this wasn't some sort of body snatcher situation, Lip playing the role of a decent guy and not Mr. High and Mighty. 

Mickey’s eyebrows rose slowly, while he scratched at his nose. “Yeah, I’m gonna go get some ‘a those cookies before these assholes inhale ‘em all.” He power-walked away from the family pow wow, not sure which version of Lip he preferred. 

The third surprise came for Ian when Bernie backed his work van into the slot beside the old VW van. Ian’s face lit up in warm surprise. “Bernie? What are you doing here?” His smile slipped with the thought of the injured man doing any sort of heavy lifting. 

“He’s here on _supervisor business only_ , ain’t that right, old man?” Mickey warned, like he had read Ian’s mind. 

“I’m glad to help, Ian.” Bernie said. “It’s nice to be a part of something I can be proud of. It’s been way too long.” 

“I hear you,” Ian said wondering how Mickey had managed to turn his family’s turmoil into a weekend of community building.

There was plenty of shop talk as they worked the morning away. Mickey was pleased as fucking punch that the only heavy lifting Bernie was doing was the pro-Ian campaign he was running on Ian’s family. 

“I’m telling you guys, he’s a modern-day Robin Hood. Got all these ideas for helping out the people who need him most, instead of putting himself first. He’s a saint!” 

“Sounds like a real boy scout,” Jamie, one of Mickey’s crew, snickered. “Sure, you didn’t take a wrong turn, boy scout? End up in a bad neighborhood?” He elbowed the towering beast of a man next to him, and they shared another chuckle at Ian’s expense. 

“Remember that time you pissed yourself in middle school and my beautiful bride, Raine, had to haul it to the principal’s office to get you dry undies before lunch, Jamie?” Bernie asked. 

The man’s eyes went wide. Bernie laughed. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” 

Ian’s smile hadn’t wavered. “Nah, not a boy scout.” He looked on as he casually corrected him. “But I did get kicked out of ROTC when they caught me fucking another cadet under the bleachers.” 

The crew erupted in chiding and teasing as Mickey felt the heels of his feet bolt into the ground beneath him, lightning that simultaneously ran up his spine. 

A large part of him seethed in jealousy at the idea of someone else getting the privilege of knowing Ian’s dick on a more intimate level than he currently had. Another, much more encompassing, part of him desperately wished he could’ve been the one getting railed by Ian under those bleachers. 

“Ian, a boy scout??” Fiona huffed a laugh. “Tell that to Officer Jeffries who hauled his ass home to me each time the little shit stole a fuckin’ car with Lip AND tried to outrun the cops!” 

“I could run a 6-minute mile,” he bragged. “Those donut eaters didn’t stand a chance.” 

“ _You_ two were pretty good at getting dropped off on my front stoop by the cops too.” Bernie tilted his chin at Jamie and Tony, who were rolling their eyes at Ian’s claims. “Never saw you trying to run a 6- _hour_ mile though.” 

“Breaking our balls, Bernie?” Tony wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist. “And none of Raine’s chocolate cake to make it up to us with?” 

Bernie smiled. “She was just whipping something up when I left. Why don’t you boys all stop by later? She’d love to see yous.” He glanced at Ian, mouthing ‘ _carrot cake_ ’ silently and Ian grinned back. 

Mickey was more pleased with the idea of a bad boy Ian on some less-than-legal business than he cared to admit. Most of his focus was on the taut jean material covering Ian’s thighs, so visibly muscular that Mickey assumed he was as obsessive over his gym routine as everything else in his life. It must take forever to peel those things off him. He wondered if using his teeth might help speed up the process. 

“I don’t know about that, Bernie,” Ian blushed, and Mickey vaguely registered Bernie steering the conversation back to present-day Ian and his good deeds. “I’m just as happy to work with the rich as I am the poor.” 

“Sure, you’re willing to take everyone on as clients equally, and I respect that. These programs you’ve got planned, Ian. They help people provide for their families. Feel like they’ve got a future worth working for. You’re gonna make a lot more difference in people’s lives, trust me, son.” 

The backyard grew quiet, and Mickey watched as Lip and Fiona’s faces morphed from polite interest to almost surprise awe. He could see the light finally go on in their dimwitted heads, and he willed Ian to look up and see this; see how they saw him. The way he deserved to be seen. 

He made a mental note to thank Bernie later for having Ian’s back like this because the redhead was so determined to hold onto his blind spot where his success was concerned that it was going to take more than Mickey’s efforts to help him see his worth. 

But Ian didn’t look up. Mickey recognized something in the way the sides of Ian’s lips twitched downwards. No doubt the guy was starting to fret over the nearly empty filing cabinet, which should be bulging with client profiles. 

Knowing that something dangerous was happening where his own emotions were concerned, Mickey nudged at his nose and distracted Ian from the spiral that was just waiting to take hold. “Well, ICG’s gonna blow up soon, once we get more of those rich clients on board. Ain’t that right, Ian?” 

Ian looked confused for a moment, like he’d gone too far out to sea in his mind, letting the frayed edges of his anxiety pull him under. Mickey willed him wordlessly to remember their plan, to recall Mickey’s reassurances that _he had this_. 

That was why their team was a strong one. Ian might be a hair away from his business folding, but he had Mickey, now. Mickey was the procurer, and he was fully invested. He was the one to drum up wealthy dudes and get them to sign, so that Ian could focus on helping people and doing actual work. No way was it ever going to be the other way around because Mickey would sooner jump off the Michigan Avenue Bridge than do more fucking paperwork. 

Ian watched him back, worried eyes turning tranquil, and Mickey felt another pang of fondness for him. A soft smile tucked a dimple into Ian’s cheek as he returned to his motions, sawing at a two by four. Mickey kept his chuckle under control when he noticed that Ian didn’t appear to have any sort of clear plan for the piece of wood besides mindlessly sawing it in half. 

Ruining another nice moment, that he was quickly becoming an expert at, Lip asked, “If he’s Robin Hood, does that make you Maid Mickey?” 

“Say that again and I’ll rip your tongue out!” 

But it was said without heat, as Mickey had grown distracted by the strained muscles and tendons working in Ian’s bared biceps as he sawed. Ian had the stamina of a lumberjack, it would seem, making Mickey wonder about Ian’s workouts, and more specifically if Ian could give them both an athletic workout that would get their hearts pumping. 

“That wood isn’t gonna screw itself, Mickey.” 

“ _...The fuck, Ian_?” Mickey wiped the sweat from his brow, looking around nervously at Ian’s scattered family members. It wasn’t that he was some sort of prude, or that he hasn’t made his share of inappropriate sex jokes in public; it was that he didn’t know if Ian was planning on outing them to his whole fucking social circle. 

Realization hit Ian when his eyes shot around the yard guiltily, then landed on Mickey, and they were clearly trying to tell him that he only meant the actual screw not the metaphorical screw. In case his eyes didn’t get the message across, he took two steps toward Mickey, where he was hunched over the planing drill about to lose a finger because of the damn redhead. 

“Oh...oh! No, Mickey, I meant…” He pointed at the power drill in Mickey’s hand, laying impotent against the wood planks. “Screwing nails.” His voice cracked slightly, and the rest of his thought floated in the air between them like thought bubbles. 

_Not screwing you._

Lip snorted. Obviously, he was well versed in reading invisible thought bubbles.

\------

By lunch, there was talk of Carl bringing home some take-out from his job at Captain Bob’s Sandwich Shack. Considering the number of mouths to feed, they’d all have to be reeeeeeally open minded in regards to freshness and food quality. Most likely, they’d be dining on a buffet platter straight out of Bob’s dumpster.

Mickey and Ian were discussing their successes in catching Frank in action. No one but the two of them knew what the plan was, so Lip and Fiona are just now finding this out. 

“And you’re sure Frank didn’t see you?” Lip asked. He sniffed the day-old donut then traded it for a PBJ sandwich. 

“Too busy giving people free tickets to his junk show to notice,” Mickey assured them, and Ian laughed happily at their shared memory of thwarting the fuckhead. 

Normally, Mickey would have jumped at the chance to brag up their joint success in the matter to the elder Gallagher siblings, shoving everyone’s low expectations down their throats. 

But after an hour of watching Ian doing manual labor; after strenuous rounds of hammering, screwing, banging nails, and sweating, Mickey was in no condition to focus on anything but the guy’s damn body. His mind was lost in the gutter, next to Ian’s sweat-soaked tank top and strained muscles. 

And Ian had made it clear that he was noticing Mickey, too. Shooting him glances, watching Mickey operating the power drills. While everyone else had tired and needed a break, the two of them slowed their pace, focused on eye fucking each other from their own stations.

And now he was ready to bang something else entirely. 

“Ay, Ian, wanna take a break?” He hoped his facial expression was doing all the flirting that his lack of creative wording did not.

Ian’s half-lidded eyes gave him all the answer he needed.


	21. Chapter 21

_Saturday, September 14th. Day 11._

They leaned back, pressing the planes of their deltoid muscles against the sun-heated metal of the old VW permanently parked in the Gallagher's yard. 

Ian tipped his head back, blissed from the temperature, the physical exertion, the flirting with Mickey, and the smoke wafting from Mickey's cigarette taking him back to his previous days of glorious teenage rebellion. 

He asked, eyelids still gently shut, "Can I bum one off of you?" 

Mickey paused after his long inhale. "Dudley Do Right smokes?" One eyebrow crept up in disbelief. "Since when?" 

Ian's eyes fluttered open. He turned to the man next to him, eyeing the muscles and sweat. His bicep swelled where it bent, bringing the cigarette inches from his mouth then pausing when he caught Ian staring. 

"Oh, uh..." Ian pivoted slowly towards him, bare arm propped against the roof of the van. "I guess I don't." 

Mickey watched as Ian gradually moved closer, his pupils dilated and shining as they scanned him. 

"Old habits," Ian shrugged with a smirk.

“How does a bite-sized renegade like little Ian Gallagher turn into such an upstanding fucking citizen, anyway?” 

Ian, still lost in the moment and chocked full of confidence, murmured, “I think we both know there’s nothing little about me.” 

He paused inches from Mickey’s lips. Mickey, already well-acquainted with this game, leaned into it and pressed hard against him. Ian’s large hands fell right into place against the small of Mickey’s back, fingers splaying into place along the perfectly smoothed torso. 

The knowledge that they were about to get into it with the barest of privacy was fully wedged into Mickey’s mind, and he didn’t give a single fuck. Instead he bit into Ian’s bottom lip and fit himself against Ian’s body. 

Ian backed up minutely, enough to look Mickey in the eye and ask, “In this neighborhood?” 

“Guess we’d better be quiet, then.” 

The sex dripping from his voice was enough to ignite the flame in Ian’s eyes. He pushed a firm hand against Mickey's chest, pressing him harder into the side of the VW and kissed him again. 

As they breathed heavily, Mickey wondered absently if Ian had been hiding his bad boy side all along, underneath the polished outfits and the prim OCD tics, and that Mickey was the one drawing it out of him during those rare moments of recklessness at the office. 

Ian, always ready with a solution to any problem, stepped to the side and swung open the hatch at the rear of the VW. He swept his arm out like a grand invitation, and they shared a grin as they hopped inside, kneeling in the middle of the open space. 

Once Ian slammed the door shut behind them, he pulled Mickey into a kiss. His hands were divided between holding Mickey close by his jaw and cheekbone and sliding the other down the small of his back and over his butt. 

Mickey pulled back, breathing heavily. "You got a condom?" 

"No. I wouldn't be surprised if this van was littered with them, but I also wouldn’t trust anything we found. It'd be older than Carl, and probably melted." Ian paused to consider. "Lip would have some in his room, if you want to go upstairs?" His bedroom eyes left little room for argument. But the thought of the two of them waltzing by Mickey's crew with fully erect crotch tents, giving the older men fodder to hassle him with for the rest of his life, was a quick deterrent. 

"Nah," he said, pulling Ian's pants down effortlessly over his slender hips. "Let's do it in here." 

With one sly glance at the oblivious crew beyond the window, Ian flashed him a devilish grin and whipped his shirt over his head. 

The lack of space in the van's cluttered interior added to the struggle of getting Mickey's jeans off. He gave them a few more aggressive tugs, then left them clinging to his taut calves. With a shrug, Ian crawled over the brunet's bent knees and planted both palms on either side of his head, dipping down to kiss him. 

Mickey coiled an arm around the small of Ian's back as he returned the kiss. He slipped his hand under Ian's boxers, trailing his fingertips over the smooth skin of Ian's toned ass as he grappled with getting his boots off underneath him, both feet kicking at one another in futile effort. "Get me outta these and get on me."

Ian laughed. The acrobatic maneuvering required to get Mickey naked in this scenario were above his capabilities, good intentions be damned. "Got something better in mind." 

"Doubt it." 

Ian shifted his weight onto one hand as the other pulled back to reach into Mickey's boxers. His large hand wrapped tightly around the solid erection, retrieving it from its thin cotton confinements. He stroked it a few times, slowly, until Mickey impatiently rutted his hips into Ian's grip. 

"Quit stalling." 

"I don't have any lube." His hand picked up speed, insistent in his desire to get Mickey off in the quickest, safest manner possible. 

"'M good. I can take it." 

Incredulous laughter bubbled up from Ian's chest. "Trust me--" He looked down at his own filled out boxers. "You're going to want lube for this."

Mickey paused his movements. "You doubtin' me?" He raised an eyebrow, smirking.

Ian sighed, leaned backwards in a kneel, and dropped his boxers to pool at his knees along with his pants. The smirk melted right off Mickey's face. "Holy shit..." He spat, aware that he’d been off by a couple of inches. "Fucking _jackpot_." 

He sprung up to a sitting position, face close to the fucking jackpot. After pausing for a mere second to make eye contact, his lips slid around the head. In an attempt to bring out the bad boy Ian and his dominant aggression, Mickey remained at the tip, licking circles with his tongue. This kind of patience was uncharacteristic for Mickey, but he had a feeling it would pay off. 

"Oh my god..." Ian groaned in a low tenor. While his ass cheeks clenched in an effort not to thrust forward, Mickey felt a hand caress the back of his head, hovering, hesitating to press down. Mickey raised his own hand to Ian's, placing it firmly against his skull then raised both eyebrows, daring him on. 

Ian rotated his hips experimentally and was rewarded with Mickey’s lips moving another inch down, then pulling back up slowly. He felt the moment of hesitation in Ian’s body before he gave in, pressing Mickey's head down in a careful but deliberate motion. 

After a few minutes of heavy breathing and near gagging, Mickey popped off. "Okay, get on me." He grabbed Ian's hand, pulling him backwards as he fell flat against the dirty van floor. 

"Mickey," Ian insisted, concern showing through his clouded gaze, "It's going to take more than spit to make this work." 

Mickey's skin flushed hot, both from the sweltering heat inside the van and from Ian's sweaty skin pressing against him. Legs still bent and pressed apart, butterflied backwards with Ian's body in between them, he reached a hand forward and grabbed Ian's erection, directing it downwards and pressing it against himself. "I can handle it." 

He could sense the argument on Ian's lips, so he met them with his own, instead. Holding Ian's head in place, he kissed him sensually, delving deeper as he rotated his hips against Ian's, grinding against himself repeatedly. 

Ian began to rut against him, nudging his erection against Mickey over and over. Still slick with Mickey's saliva, he inched forward, so close to penetrating.  
"Mickey," he whispered. 

That's when the hatch to the van flew open. Carl Gallagher stood quietly, holding up a to-go bag of Captain Bob’s. “Hey Ian, you said you wanted the Pico De Gallo Shrimp Explosion with tartar, right?” 

Ian made an attempt to cover Mickey’s body, pretending he was laying naked alone in the back of the VW. “Oh shit, really? You got the good stuff? I’ll pay you back for it.” 

Carl shrugged one shoulder, his words as nonchalant as his expression. “It’s all good. Been gettin’ lotsa overtime, so this paycheck’ll cover it.” 

He tipped a little to the left and nodded once in greeting at the man under Ian. “Sup?” 

“CLOSE THE FUCKING DOOR!” 

Ian tilted his head in apologetic agreement, and Carl shrugged his shoulder again as he shut the hatch door, carrying their food away with him. 

“I mean, if you can see that the van is rocking, why the FUCK would you come knocking?” Mickey’s cheeks flushed red, ready to continue his rant until the look on Ian’s face cut him off. 

Ian had stilled, like the fog of their lust was lifting, and Mickey feared that their session was about to douse itself in cold water. But before that thought concluded, Ian flipped Mickey over, manhandling him so that he was on all fours, his pants and boots no longer a concern in this new position. 

Ian spat directly onto his dick, sliding it along Mickey’s ass crack, then tugging Mickey's ass flush against him, rutting desperately. His other hand snaked around Mickey’s front to jerk him off. 

Mickey was so lost in the moment, too stunned by how quickly Ian had dominated him into this position, to demand Ian fuck him properly. Instead, he simply moved with him, shrouded in pleasure. 

He couldn’t even give a thought to the scattered crowd in the backyard, undoubtedly getting a good idea of the performance inside. All he could see was the back of his own eyelids as Ian’s hand swept over the sensitive head of his cock, slamming him roughly from behind and teasing his nerves into a frenzy. 

Every time Mickey opened his mouth to egg him on further, he only had it in him to catch his breath, shallow and desperate as Ian chased him into his orgasm. 

And, sweet Jesus, was Ian as eager as he had been in Mickey’s fantasies. The stapler incident had nothing on this. He knew this was just the start of what the Pandora’s Box of Ian’s sexual prowess had to offer. He knew they were going to explore every inch of each other’s bodies, and soon. 

As soon as they had more space, and privacy, to do so. 

Ian brought that hand to grab Mickey's ass cheek, massaging at the muscle, lifting him up and closer with each glide and Mickey’s hips picked up speed in response. 

Panting, Mickey looked over his shoulder to see Ian staring him down, sweat pouring down his face in the heat of the sun-beat van, eyes demanding-- _daring_ Mickey to come. He licked his thumb, quickly lowering it to press the knuckle against Mickey’s taint. He gave it a few hard nudges, and Mickey was gone. 

He waited until Ian had wrung him dry, wrapping his spent body tight in his arms as his own orgasm overcame him, his hips thrusting at Mickey as they slumped forward together to collapse onto the carpeting.

Once he caught his breath and felt Ian wiping himself with an old rag, Mickey said, “Hotter than a goddamn sauna in here, man. Fucking melting.”

The heat was suffocating, but Ian chuckled softly, pulling Mickey into a tight embrace. His body fit perfectly in those arms. 

“It’s cute how quickly you get pissed off.” Ian kissed at Mickey’s neck. 

Mickey tried to protest, feeling so sweaty he could slip right out of Ian’s grip like a trout, but he was too spent, his bones rubber as Ian continued to kiss the back of his neck and along his jawline. 

Mickey opened his eyes, looking dazedly at the disgusting old comforter under his cheek. 

“Why don’t we try this again later. I mean I’m glad we _actually_ got our dicks out of our pants this time, but my leg is fucking cramped.” 

“Stay over… tonight.” 

Mickey’s lips pulled into a grin. “Oh yeah? Whatchu got in mind? Tell me it involves actual fucking…” 

Ian hummed, his warm lips hot against Mickey’s skin. “You’ll have to stay the whole night to find out.” 

“If I stay two nights in a row, you gonna get me some of that fancy ass shrimp? Not gonna lie, I’m starving.” 

“Stay three nights in a row, and I’ll let you serve me cappuccino in bed,” Ian’s smile grew wicked, “…after I untie you.” 

All pretense dropped from Mickey’s face as his ears perked up. “Wait, shit, really?” 

Ian grinned salaciously. 

“Oh… I mean, yeah. Yeah, I can do that. Fuck, man, tie me up all weekend if you’re gonna be like that. My ass is yours.” 

“You bet it is.” 

“That’s the best idea you’ve had all day, Gallagher.” Ian leaned in to press one last kiss to his cheek before smacking Mickey on the ass, then he yanked both their pants back into place. 

“Were you really gonna let me do that bareback without lube?” Ian watched Mickey push back to a seated position then shrug indifferently. 

“I’m back in the fucking neighborhood with my ass hanging out in the back of a beat-up old van…call me nostalgic.” 

Ian laughed and laughed, until Mickey kicked him in the thigh with the heel of his boot. “Lose your fucking mind or something?” 

Releasing a breath, Ian got himself under control. "No, it just sounds so familiar. Like we could have found ourselves in that van together back then.” 

They shared a look, lots of unsaid shit hanging in the space between them. 

“Oh...” Ian concluded, “I should've just asked Carl for a condom." 

Mickey shook his head in disappointment.


	22. Chapter 22

_Saturday, September 14th. Day 11. Evening_

“Yes, right there, Ian. Higher, oh that’s good. Fuck, harder. Where’d you learn to do that? You’re a fucking professional.” 

Ian tried to reign in his ego at the words and accompanying moans, but giving Mickey pleasure, and hearing all about it, had just reached the top of his list of reasons to be alive. 

“I’ve watched a few YouTube videos,” he explained, shifting his fingers a little to the left and getting another moan in response. “I used to practice on Lip.” 

“Ay, let’s not bring him into this. Ruin the moment, man.” 

“Sorry,” Ian smiled at the paleness of Mickey’s back and the way his shoulders relaxed under Ian’s fingers. “Well, you deserve a massage after the way you worked that reno magic today. We should be done by tomorrow afternoon.” 

“No big deal.” 

Ian didn’t push it. He figured Mickey wasn’t comfortable with praise, so he let his fingers do the praising for the time being, and he’d let the rest of his body do the praising later tonight. 

“What do you want for dinner?” Ian asked, looking around his apartment for where he left the stack of take out menus. “I was thinking of using Skip the Dishes to get you whatever your heart desires.” 

The living room was silent for a few minutes, and Ian wondered if Mickey had fallen asleep, until he pulled away from Ian’s touch, sliding along the sofa cushion until he could sit properly. 

“About that,” Mickey began, eyes darting around a bit and setting off Ian’s _shit’s going down_ radar. “I gotta head out for a bit.” 

“Oh, I thought…” Ian didn’t finish. Mickey knew what he thought, and he didn’t want to seem desperate or pushy. “Okay.” 

Neither of them believed that last word. 

“I’ll be back later. If, you know, that’s cool.” 

“Okay.” Ian turned away, looking anywhere but at Mickey because he knew he was turning into a clingy mess and could tell he wasn’t going to be terribly successful at hiding it.

Mickey stood up, tugging his t-shirt over his head and flexing his shoulders. He nodded happily now that he was apparently relaxed. “Around 10:00 work for you?” 

“10:00?” Ian’s voice rose higher than he’d have liked. 

Mickey stood over him, where he was seated on the sofa. “Yeah.” 

Ian couldn’t hold it in. “Where are you going?” 

“Gotta do something, but I want to come back, Ian.” 

“Okay.” Ian was a broken record, apparently. He watched Mickey grab his phone, smokes, keys, stuffing them in his jacket pocket then pulling on the coat. With each movement, Ian’s self-doubt creeped back from wherever it had been hiding the last week or so. 

Somehow, he’d gotten it into his head that he and Mickey were something resembling a couple, when they’d barely passed the threshold from adversaries. He’d imagined an intimacy, a connection, far beyond what any sane guy would assume this soon. It’s just that Mickey seemed...into him. But that didn’t mean that he was going to put his life on hold to be with Ian. 

That stung was more than it should. 

Ian stood up, nose to nose with Mickey. He inhaled deeply but held his tongue. “Good-bye then.” 

Mickey tapped his palm against Ian’s cheek. “We’re back to being formal?” 

“Appears so,” Ian retorted, letting some of his bitterness seep out. 

“10:00.”

His lips met Ian’s and Ian couldn’t help himself. His arm snaked around Mickey’s waist, pulling him tightly to his body. Apparently, he had no shame. The kiss went from zero to sixty as fast as any hot rod, and they were locked in a heated embrace until Mickey patted his cheek again.

“Gotta jet, loverboy.” 

He watched him walk away, disappearing into the stairwell. The sound of his footsteps matching the beat of Ian’s heart. The thought of four hours of wondering was nearly bringing him to his knees. He knew that his anxiety and host of other yet-to-be-diagnosed conditions were going to rear their ugly heads the entire time, until he feared that when Mickey returned, he’d get one look at Ian’s unstable mind and take off again. 

That was the reason he gave himself when he jogged toward the staircase, intending to stop him and get some sort of reassurance. Anything to stop the spiral. 

When he reached the bottom of the stairs, the office was dim, but the setting sun still cast enough light that Mickey’s shape was visible. Ian paused his pursuit to watch Mickey where he stood near the reception desk. 

His dark head was bent over his phone, tapping in some information from a slip of paper lying on the desk. He waited a second or two, then was satisfied with whatever appeared on the phone screen because he pocketed the device, before swiping a hand over the slip of paper sending it into the top drawer of his desk. 

Ian stepped back into the doorway, out of the line of sight as Mickey peered around the room then stuffed a cigarette between his lips. He flicked his lighter, flame appearing as his head tilted forward. Ian watched the tip of the smoke turn orange as Mickey left through the front door. The snick of the lock signaling his departure. 

It was never going to be a question as to whether Ian would look at that slip of paper, so he didn’t even bother to pretend otherwise. By the time he was standing where Mickey stood less than a minute before, the smell of burned tobacco was so faint that Ian wouldn’t have noticed it if he wasn’t expecting it. Somethings would always remind him of Mickey, and that was one of them. 

He pulled open the drawer, spotting the paper immediately. The printing was messy, a combination of capital letters and lower case, print and cursive, with a surprising tendency for dramatic loops. He’d recognize his secretary’s penmanship anywhere. 

Millennium Knickerbocker. 6:00pm. 

Ian knew that name. It was an upscale hotel along Magnificent Mile. And Mickey had a date there in little over an hour. 

Ian raced back up the stairs, grabbing his keys, wallet and phone, pausing at the sofa to suck back the finger of whisky Mickey had left behind. It burned going down and lit a fire in Ian’s gut, burning away any doubts he had over following his new lover to a hotel on a Saturday night. 

On second thought, he veered into his room and changed into one of his more casual linen suits and his favorite blue paisley tie. A warrior needed his armor, after all. 

When he stepped onto the porch, the September night air cooled his face, but he didn’t let the momentary sanity that gave him stop his movements. Locking the door, he turned toward the Prius parked on the front street, clicking the door open button from where he stood on the porch. 

“I sense an imbalance, Ian.” 

He nearly leapt out of his skin at the softly spoken words. Amethyst was sitting cross legged on a giant cushion, her hand rhythmically moving through Reuben's suddenly non-existent fur.

“Let me run through a crystal grid for you!” she announced, pushing the cat gently from her lap and getting to her feet before Ian could gather his wits. As usual. “I’m thinking rose quartz to restore love and trust!” 

“I’m in a bit of a rush,” he said, moving toward the path that led to the car, but Reuben planted his ass on the porch directly in Ian’s way, giving his master enough time to move into Ian’s personal space. Her fingers moved around his chest, not quite touching but freaking Ian out nonetheless. 

“Ian,” she said quietly. “You need only allow the Great Shining Light into the dark recesses of your mind, and you will be free.” Her hands moved once swiftly around his head and she stepped back. “Go, he awaits.” 

She scooped the cat into her arms. “Come, Reuben. There’s a new episode of _Tiger King_ starting soon. It’s your favorite, my love.” 

With that, she was gone, leaving Ian in the wake of her incense and nonsense. 

_Let the light into the darkness, Ian._

His head whipped around but the porch was empty, except for Reuben watching him through the main window, yellow eyes mocking him. Shaking off the ridiculous idea that his neighbor could see into his soul, Ian power walked to the car, hellbent on getting out of there. 

The streets were relatively quiet, and he made good time, radio set to the 24-hour business radio station where the markets never sleep. Ian knew how that felt. He was never going to sleep if he didn’t get his head under control. The stirrings of low-level hypomania were making themselves known, and it was freaking him out. He’d thought that had all been a teenage phase, but now he was starting to wonder if he’d only managed to keep it all at bay because he had such tight control over his life. 

Whatever it was, he didn’t have time to think about it because the Millennium Knickerbocker came into view. The red brick front broken up by planes of metal and dark glass as the Prius slowly drove past. It was wishful thinking that Mickey would be standing out front, and Ian could simply pull up and demand he get in the car. He was going to have to find parking in the middle of downtown when the night life was about to get started. 

Luck was on his side though, and a sedan was backing out of a spot near the waterfront. Ian zipped in and walked toward the hotel trying to figure out what exactly his plan was. 

The doorman nodded as he held open the glass door for him, then Ian was in the old-fashioned lobby, plush and white and way too fancy for any place Ian suspected Mickey would hook up. In fact, it looked like a place his grandparents would hook up if he had grandparents. 

After wandering around the lobby for a minute, hoping to clear his head, he ended up plopping down into an oversized wing-backed chair next to two giant fichus plants. Think, Ian, think. What would Mickey be doing here? Was he even here? Could there be some-- 

He nearly toppled out of his chair when Mickey walked through the center of the lobby. Freaking out, Ian pushed back into his chair, arm reaching out for the ficus plant that he pulled closer, using it as a shield. But Mickey didn’t even look in his direction, just kept walking, clearly on his way to a specific destination. 

He was alone and he'd changed his clothes. Gone were the jeans and tank top, in their place was black dress pants, black button down, but most importantly, a Waterbury blue microfiber tie in what looked from here to be a tear-drop shaped motif. Ian had never seen Mickey dressed up, and here he was traipsing around a hotel in a four in hand necktie! 

Once the compact body made a left at the arched hallway, Ian shot out of his chair and across the lobby, startling a grey-haired lady. 

“Watch it, young man!” she hollered as he held up his hands in apology. “If you’re here for the tournament, seats are assigned, so there’s no need to barge in” 

Unable to risk losing Mickey, he just nodded at the woman, and managed to get to the hallway in time to see his secretary walk through a set of double doors labeled Crystal Ballroom.


	23. Chapter 23

**The previous Friday, ICG Insurance**

_With a little salute, Mickey walked out of Ian’s office, palming the small rolodex card with his other hand and slipping it into his pocket. He planned the very important phone call he was about to make on the short drive to the sandwich shop._

_Sitting in the Prius outside the nearest Subway, he nervously chewed at his bottom lip and tapped his foot as the line rang repeatedly through the phone he had pressed against his ear._

_“Zamansky residence. To whom am I speaking?”_

_“...Seriously? Who the hell doesn’t have caller ID?” Mickey gripped the bridge of his nose in instant regret. Shit._

_“Excuse me?”_

_“Yes, ma’am.” He rolled his eyes, pushing through the discomfort. “My name is Mickey Milkovich.” He took a deep breath. Here goes nothing..._

\-------

**Present day, Knickerbocker Hotel, Crystal Ballroom**

If someone had told Mickey that he’d be surrounded by Chicago’s finest bridge players and about to open a new suit during play because he and his formidable partner had established a strange connection, he would have laughed in their face.

Sure, he’d learned a thing or two about how to bid and take a trick from Bernie and Raine during those months when Terry fucked off, but it was his goddamn father who taught him how to bluff and not just during poker but in life.

It was three hours into the District 7 Finals and Mickey knew they were near to winning rubber, but their opponents suddenly had an air of confidence they’d been lacking up till now. He flicked a look at Buffy’s passive expression, her always perfect lipstick and heavy pearl earrings winking at him.

While the cards were being dealt, she chatted with one of their opponents, a heavy set Italian dude who had a beard that made Mickey itch to grow one of his own.

Buffy smiled at him. “Well, I favor light opening bids. When you're my age, you can never be sure that the bidding will get back around to you again.”

They laughed in acknowledgment of their advanced years, while Mickey put his focus back on his hand. He eyed the 2 aces, 1 king, 1 queen and 1 jack, and schooled his features to relax. “Fourteen,” he bid.

From there the play continued, not once did Buffy look his way but he knew she hadn’t taken her attention off of him.

\-------

_The large estate was complete with a wide steel gated entrance, swinging open wordlessly after Mickey announced his presence into the speaker box. He slowly drove Ian’s Prius up the winding drive, around the ridiculous fountain and cut the engine in front of a set of enormous double doors._

_An unsmiling man in a suit led him to what would probably be called a salon if he was even halfway familiar with hoity-toity words. Dropping his jean-clad ass into a cushy, rich old lady’s sofa chair, he swung the bags of Subway footlongs onto the seat next to him, stomach growling the whole time._

_Buffy sat across from him, eyeing his lunch uncomfortably like he was going to pull one out and got to town on it while she sipped fucking tea from the tiniest teacup he’d ever seen._

_“Thank you for meeting with me,” he began, suddenly feeling like a little kid rather than a fully grown fucking secretary._

_“I trust you’ll keep this brief.” Looking no more impressed with him than she had upon their first encounter, Mickey wondered if she hadn’t accepted his request on curiosity alone._

_Since neither of them suffer fools, he cut right to the heart of the situation._

_“A’ight, Buffy, listen--”_

_“You can address me as Mrs. Zamansky.” There was no hint of a smile._

_Mickey corrected himself with a deep sigh that ruffled the leaves on the big ass plant next to his chair. “Right, Mrs. Zamansky. That’s what I meant.” He scratched at his eyebrow._

_The smell of perfume was heavy, reminding him of Bernie’s wife, the only woman he’d ever gotten close enough to that her scent could permeate his nose._

_He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry about the last time I saw you. Before I fuc--opened my mouth, you…” he waved his hand aloft, “...were gonna go with Ian--and you should cause he’s the best at what he does, and I fucked that up.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “I *messed* that up.”_

_She eyed his knuckle tattoos, her reaction far more controlled than their last encounter. “I have already made my decision on the matter, and I’ve made it perfectly clear to your employer--”_

_Mickey interrupted, voice hard since he didn’t have the tools to be anything but who he fucking was. “That was my fault, not his. He ain’t even--”_

_She interrupted back, voice also hard and Mickey suspected that she’d had to fight her way to this position. Tooth and fucking nail. “Did I appear to have finished speaking, young man?” Mickey’s lips pulled tightly together, eyebrows raising incrementally. She continued, “I like Ian. I enjoy his company and I respect his determination. Don’t think I don’t know a brand new bridge player eager to impress when I hear one.” She set her teacup down on the end table next to her. “But I can’t trust in his ability to make appropriate decisions.”_

_“Like the choice to hire me.”_

_“And to keep you in his employ after your behavior--on your first day, no less.”_

_Mickey could feel the anger rising and willed himself to unclench the fists that had formed on his thighs. It’s not like she didn’t have a fucking point, but that was then and this was fucking now._

_“Yeah, well Ian CHOSE to trust in ME. And here I am, fighting for him, to someone who thought I was a lost cause the moment she looked at me.”_

_“Would you trust someone who behaved the way you did, who spoke to clients the way you did, with your investments? Your livelihood? Your life savings?”_

_“Fuck no!” He cringed but decided against apologizing. Keeping things PG was never going to be his forte, so he doubled down. “But I’d trust Ian. 100%, every time. And you’re smart enough to know he’s the best. Which means you're putting your own best interests--your own dime--at risk, just because I’m not some North Side tool.”_

_Because she remained silent, watching him closely, Mickey continued but each word was a surprise to him as much as it was to her._

_“You think I'm some sorta, what, thug? Well that's cause I AM. That shit is what I'm good at." He could feel the blood pounding in his veins. "I've been raised to steal, cheat, fight, whatever was needed. That was the hand I got dealt. That’s who I was supposed to be._

_"But Ian... he chose his own outcome despite equally shitty options. He made himself into everything he is. He didn't let anything hold him back. He knew who he really was, what mattered to him most, and he made it happen. Like he could ever not care about helping people. It's in his DNA, hardwired into his brain, and shit._

_Just realizing he was now standing, Mickey glanced around the frilly room at the sunlight coming in through the wall of windows, at the acre of grass stretching to the trees beyond, at the perfect blue sky. Then he sat back down and looked at Buffy, going for broke._

_"And he changed me. Cause I sure as fuck wouldn't be doing this outta the kindness of my heart. Not for anyone else. But I'm not going to just sit back and watch him lose everything he has, everything he cares about most, just cause'a me running my mouth. So if I have to track you down, tuck my tail between my legs and fall on my own sword, then that's how it's gonna be. Cause I own up to my own mistakes."_

_He could repeat himself for hours on the subject, but this was his moment, so he drove it home._

_"And you can own up to your shitty decisions, too." It was her turn to look surprised. "Lemme guess, right now that other guy is screwing some blonde on his 40-foot yacht 'stead of focusing on you and your money, right?"_

_She gave the smallest tell, and he pushed forward. "So you already know that going with Ian is the right thing to do." He leaned forward and said, "And I'm gonna invest what I got into this, too."_

_"Oh?" Her propped eyebrow looked doubtful, but her tone of voice suggested to Mickey that she was just as curious as he was hoping she'd be._

_"You see, I've got some talents of my own. A lifelong invested skill, you could say..."_

\-------

As they entered the final hand of the tournament, Mickey’s natural risk-taking and strategizing kicked into full force. This round, he was ignoring his opponent, afraid he’d see disappointment in her gaze if their eyes met. No way, though, was he going to examine why her disappointment would be as disheartening as he imagined it would be. 

For the moment, he needed to bluff his way through a hand that totaled less than 10 fucking points. Sucking at his front teeth, he casually adjusted his cards, giving off the impression that he was grouping his cards into an equal balance of suits, when in fact, he was clubs heavy. 

Buffy was now directing her intimidating gaze at their other opponent, a petite Asian dude in three layers of sweater. He nodded in rapt attention as Buffy discussed important game techniques.

“I fear it’s not how one manages the difficult hands that determines a winner,” she offered to her rapt audience. “It’s how one avoids screwing up the easy one.”

Her eyes shot to Mickey, narrowing just enough to make her point then dropping to her own cards, which she’d just picked up.

\-------

_Mickey’s offer hung in the air between them, and for some damn reason, he felt confident, certain that the old broad was astute enough to know when she had a winning fucking hand. That’s what Mickey was now certain he and Ian were, a winning fucking hand._

_She twisted the giant piece of glass on her finger and made him sweat, just a little. “Well, young man, I won’t insult your intelligence nor mine by pretending to be optimistic that this plan of yours will end in success, but I will admit that I admire your chutzpah and the fact that you weren't raised with a silver spoon up your...behind,” she actually smiled, red lips tipping up. “I’m so tired of the Old Boys game that dominates the financial world that I am finding myself swayed by your speech.”_

_He waited, holding her gaze, unwilling to back down._

_“You seem inordinately fond of your employer,” she said, taking him by surprise. While he wasn’t completely sure what she meant by that inordinate part, he knew she suspected that his motives weren’t completely pure._

_"All I know is that Ian deserves this. He deserves your account,” pointing directly at her. “And you know it. You'd be lucky to be his client. ‘Specially cause you’re no spring chicken, and the time for you to shore things up is yesterday.”_

_Her eyebrows rose as high as his, but the attitude in hers outmatched his._

_“I cannot deny the veracity of that claim. But more importantly, Mr. Gallagher has…inspired something in you.” Her eyebrows resumed their normal position, and she looked almost human. “While I will deny it should it ever be repeated, I have a soft spot for young men who don’t tow the *usual* party line.”_

_For the tenth time since arriving, Mickey was at a loss. What the fuck was she talking about?_

_She sat forward in her chair, pant clad legs crossed at the ankle. Against his will, Mickey’s body basically mirrored hers as he waited for her to continue._

_“Blanche and I also...how should I say this...beat to our own drum?” She stared hard at him, waiting for her meaning to sink in. “I’ll say only that the world did not welcome our...relationship.”_

_Now they both sat back in their respective chairs, Buffy’s teacup back in her hand, Mickey’s fingers relaxed against his thighs, all anxiety gone._

_“So we have an understanding?” Mickey asked, never believing that his sexuality would end up being the winning hand in this goddamn game._

_“What did you have in mind?”_

_“Well,” he began. “There ain’t that many wins where I come from. Good guys like Ian, that stick around, are fucking rare. If anyone deserves to live a good life, it’s him and I mean to make that happen. Whatever I gotta do. That’s why I’m here making you an offer I hope you don’t turn down...”_

\------

Mickey was really fucking looking forward to this game being over. Sure, he could actually see himself back here doing it again, but tonight, way too fucking much was on the line for him to be truly enjoying himself. 

This was it, his final bid. He studied the cards, which fit in his hands like he was made for the game since bridge cards were slightly smaller than poker cards making it possible for Mickey to hold all thirteen cards easily, and made his hand look strangely too big for his body. 

Big hands. He shot a look at Buffy, who was aware of everything Mickey did. Not even her severe presence could shake the image of Ian adjusting his tie with his big hands, or the feel of his hands on Mickey’s jaw. Swallowing, he sought an image that would tamp down on the sudden adrenaline filling his veins. 

Facon! That fake bacon bullshit that Ian tried to feed him. The thought soothed the heat but brought a stupid ass grin to his face. Buffy released a soft, gentile snort, getting Mickey’s attention. 

“Gentlemen,” she said, dryly. “The difference between genius and stupidity at the bridge table is that genius has its limits.” 

Mickey’s mouth opened and closed, certain she was reprimanding him, but for less than a second, he saw something in her face and he knew. He fucking knew. 

Every bridge player fantasizes about the perfect hand – being dealt the 13 cards of one suit. He glanced at his hand, confirming what he already knew. He had no hearts. Could it possibly be?

\-----

_“So whaddyou say, that sound like terms we can agree on, Mrs Zamansky?”_

_“Son, you pull this off, and Ian will be getting a lot more than just me as his client,” she said. “I am well acquainted with everyone of importance in the Chicago Bridge Association.”_

_They had an agreement._

_“And call me Buffy.”_

\-----

“Well, that was a surprise win!” 

“Never seen the likes of it!” 

“Which home team do you usually play with?” 

“I’m in need of a second at next Saturday’s Speedball tourney, are you in?” 

Mickey’s eyes darted around the circle of ladies whose combined age would exceed many people’s basic math skills. They’d already analyzed the shit out of Buffy’s perfect hand, and had now moved onto Mickey’s role in their clean sweep. 

“Ladies,” Buffy said with an air of superiority. “He’s spoken for.” 

The group sighed in unison as Buffy leaned into Mickey’s shoulder. “God knows, Blanche would never have had the balls to pull that move off.” 

With a surprised chuckle, Mickey shrugged. “Well, Ian gives a mean massage, so I was feeling pretty relaxed.” 

As the ladies murmured around him, Mickey let his mind wonder back to those hands, imagining them on his body, demanding, taking cont-- 

_What the fuck?_

Had he totally lost his mind or did he just see the object of his fucking affection behind one of the giant ass fake plants stationed at the doors to the ballroom? 

No way. 

A wave of seniors moved through the door blocking his view, and Mickey returned his attention to the ladies now discussing the ACBL Charity Foundation. But Mickey’s eyes strayed back to the door. The spot behind the plant was empty, confirming that he was indeed desperate to be with Ian. Or so he thought. 

The Crystal Ballroom was one of the biggest rooms Mickey had ever seen, but still his senses were honed from a lifetime of being on high alert, and he fucking knew. Shooting a glance left and right, he saw him. 

Hovering behind some sort of Roman looking pillar type thing, not very nonchalantly pretending to enjoy a goddamn cocktail. Even if he didn’t have eye-catching red hair, he was taller than almost everyone else in the room, but mostly, he was Ian, and Mickey would know if he was nearby. 

“Uh, Buffy, I gotta jet, er, take off...go?” 

She smiled at his attempt to master polite society. “Yes, I’m sure you do. Say hi to Ian for me...I believe he’s now hovering near the Corinthian column behind you.” 

Mickey smirked. “I guess we’ll be seeing you bright and early Monday morning, huh?” 

“Indeed.” 

She dismissed him, and Mickey headed toward the redheaded pillar, which upon seeing him nearly sprinted from the room. He put extra effort into his strut, making sure Ian noticed. 

“You creepin’ on me?” he asked as soon as they were in earshot. 

Ian was clearly nervous, slurping loudly from the plastic straw poking out of his Screwdriver, while Mickey sucked at his lip, tipping his head to the side to study his boss. 

“Shit, Mickey, I…” Ian paused, letting out a long breath. “Fuck.” 

The embarrassment and self-loathing on Ian’s face were Mickey’s final undoing. He closed the handful of steps between them, ran a hand over the back of Ian’s neck and pulled his mouth down to Mickey’s.


	24. Chapter 24

_Saturday, September 14th. Day 11. Night_

“Whiskey?” Ian’s voice was rough, breath catching on the tightness in his chest. There was a foot of kitchen floor between him and Mickey, their eyes locked on each other. Mickey shook his head-- just a little shake, as he continued to stand immobile, hands at his sides.

Their trip from the Knickerbocker Hotel to Ian’s place had been mostly quiet, with the memory of the unexpected and very public kiss hovering around them. All the self-doubt and mortification that had accompanied Ian to the hotel had vanished once Mickey’s lips touched his. 

Briefly, he’d forgotten that they were surrounded by 300 of Chicago’s finest bridge players, including Ian’s most sought after client. He’d forgotten why he was there, and more importantly, that Mickey had kept this a secret from him. He’d forgotten that Mickey and Buffy had won the District 7 Finals and that Mickey had likely just won them Buffy’s business.

Then Mickey had stepped back, ending the PDA. Ian’s lips felt lost without him, so he’d reached out to touch his fingers, to keep him from getting away completely. He became aware of the dozens of people around them, mouths hanging open in surprise... but Mickey just smiled at him, ignoring the attention they were getting, so Ian decided to follow suit.

A half hour later, they were in Ian’s apartment with nothing to stop them from spending the night together. He swallowed, gaze flicking between the blue ones watching him, waiting for Ian to take the lead, to decide what was next between them. He stepped forward, lifting a hand to Mickey’s cheek, caressing the slightly rough skin, inhaling at the distinctly masculine feel.

Mickey blinked slowly, turning his head enough to press into Ian’s palm, eyes closing completely when Ian’s thumb moved over the skin on his cheekbone. Ian watched each movement, studying the way his lips softened when they parted. Watching the slow slide of his tongue and teeth over his flesh. 

Jesus, he was so far gone that even that small mannerism fucked him up. It had become intimately familiar to Ian and tied up so completely with images of his secretary that it felt like those movements were his, and his alone.

When Mickey’s eyes opened again, lazy and beautiful, Ian slid his hand from the stubbled cheek down to the vibrant blue necktie knotted at the other man’s throat, tugging at the knot gently. Back and forth slowly, a procedure he had performed on his own throat almost every day since graduating from college, but one he’d never performed on another man.

As the four-in-hand knot loosened, he wondered how Mickey had ended up with such a fine tie. The bias was cut at a 45 degree angle allowing for a perfect drape, and the Waterbury blue matched his eyes perfectly. Somehow the idea of this man in this tie had rocketed to fantasy material in Ian’s mind. 

His fingers worked the knot gently out of respect for the design, but it didn’t hurt that his deliberate, painstaking movements were accelerating the pulse in Mickey’s throat. _Thump, thump, thump_. Ian could feel it in his own blood, and he pressed the pad of his thumb into the pulse, a little harder than he’d intended, forcing Mickey’s chin up slightly and his eyes to meet Ian’s.

Then Ian lowered his gaze to Mickey’s mouth, willing it to open, willing his tongue to touch his lips again and fill Ian with that hot burn of desire at all the things he could do with that mouth. He gave the tie a final tug, releasing the material enough to lift it over Mickey’s head, careful not to muss the perfect swoop of his hair. That, he would save for later.

He traced his fingers down the soft dress shirt material covering Mickey’s chest until he reached his wrist, pulling the hand up between their bodies. Eyes locked, he pressed a kiss to the inside of his wrist, then slipped the loop of the tie over Mickey’s hand, yanking once to close the knot, inhaling sharply himself at the catch in Mickey’s breath.

Releasing Mickey’s hand, he set to work on his own tie, gripping the knot at his throat and lifting his chin to give him room to almost violently tug it free. He looked expectantly at Mickey as he pulled the silky material over his head, waiting for him to lift his tie-free hand to Ian’s chest. His tattooed fingers clutched Ian’s dress shirt and pulled slightly, but Ian resisted, refusing to close the distance between them.

Looking down at his chest and the flush on Mickey’s cheekbones, Ian clenched his teeth fighting the urge to kiss him. It would be so fucking good, but it would fast forward the night the moment their lips touched. Instead, he pried Mickey’s fingers free and secured his other wrist with Ian’s tie, tugging to make sure he couldn’t escape, but mostly just to hear him suck in his breath.

He leaned in until his cheek scratched along Mickey’s and his hands could reach the tie material dangling from his wrists, gathering it into one of his hands and tangling his fingers in it. Tightening until Mickey’s arms were in place behind his back.

For a few seconds, he just inhaled, feeling the warmth against his cheek and chest and listening to the uneven breath hitting his ear. Then he stepped back to look at the buttons running down Mickey’s chest. Releasing the first one exposed his collarbone, and Ian gave in to his need to have his lips somewhere on this body. He pressed several kisses to the soft skin before sliding his finger along the smooth, pale chest and flicking open the remaining buttons.

By the time he reached the final button, Mickey’s breathing echoed off the corners of the tiny kitchen and filled Ian with certainty. He tightened his hand in the tie material, holding Mickey’s hands in place and pressed his slightly open mouth against Mickey’s.

The ground under Ian’s feet shifted, and he knew he was in love, knew that he had passed the point where escape was possible. Mickey’s lips fit his, tongues barely connecting as they moved together slowly, softly. Ian lifted his hand to Mickey’s cheek, thumb replacing his lips when he pulled away. He massaged the tender pink lips, completely fucked up from one kiss.

Based on the dazed look in Mickey’s eyes, he was just as fucked up and Ian kissed him again, deeper this time, holding his head firmly in place as his mouth took what it needed and his feet started moving them in the direction of Ian’s bedroom.

When he passed through the threshold, he released the ties and tugged at the collar of Mickey’s shirt, pulling it down his arms, letting it fall to the floor at their feet. Then he stepped backward, looking down at his own chest. One by one, he unhooked the buttons of his shirt, glancing up to watch Mickey’s reaction as it fell to the floor next to Mickey’s. 

“ _Ian_.”

He scooped up the ends of the ties, securing Mickey’s hands together in front of his body and pulling him toward the bed. Inhaling deeply, Ian released the ties and rested his forehead against Mickey’s. “Lay down on the bed.”

Searching Ian’s eyes, Mickey lifted his hands to Ian’s face, pulling him down into a kiss while the ties slid over Ian’s chest, silky smooth and sexy. His first obsession had now collided with his current obsession. Grasping the back of Mickey’s thighs, he pulled him tight against his body and lowered him to the king size bed.

Mickey spread out under him on the blue comforter. It took a little maneuvering to get him in the center of the bed with Ian kneeling over him, while he continued to kiss Ian like he was oxygen. Once he was there, Ian wrapped his fingers around Mickey’s wrists, firmly pressing them to the bed and moving his mouth out of Mickey’s reach.

They stared at each other, chests heaving as Ian hovered over him wondering how touching someone could make him lose all his self-control yet feel so in control. Mickey’s thighs tightened around Ian’s knees, and Ian grabbed the tails of the two ties, yanking them toward the wooden slats in his headboard.

Mickey’s arms came with them, knuckles knocking against the wood as Ian twisted the tails of the tie into a square knot. Mickey tipped his head to watch, a low involuntary groan escaping when Ian gave the ties a hard yank making sure they were secure.

Ian sat back on his calves, tracing a finger along Mickey’s bicep where it rested on Ian’s pillow. “Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Safeword?” He tugged at the button on Mickey’s dark dress pants, making sure to slide his palm along the shape of his cock. “Just in case.”

Rolling his hips up to meet Ian’s hand, he breathed out a half-assed annoyed, “Calculator.”

Ian’s heart did a little swirl, making him giddy. Nodding, he lowered the zipper, spreading the soft material so he could pull it over Mickey’s hips. He hooked his fingers in the cotton of his boxer briefs and tugged slowly at them, watching as the cloth hooked on Mickey’s erection, rubbing over his sensitive tip.

Sliding backwards off the bed, Ian took Mickey’s clothes with him, over his thighs, down his legs, exposing every inch of him to Ian’s gaze. He stood at the end of the bed, material clutched in his hands as he looked. And looked. And looked.

Looked at the smooth skin pulled over his muscular chest, at the obvious clenching of his abs as his hips continued to roll subtly, at the perfectly shaped cock surrounded by dark pubic hair, at the thick thigh muscles, even at the shape of his calves. Everything about him was so masculine that Ian felt woozy, unsure where to start.

His eyes shot back to Mickey’s, as he stared at Ian, eyes so hot and fucking needy that Ian tossed Mickey’s pants toward his dresser on his way to the closet. "I think I have some condoms in here,” he said mostly to himself, while he began metaphorically kicking his ass for not making sure before getting Mickey in his bed.

"In the damn closet? Hiding them fr--Jesus." His jab died on his lips as Ian opened the door to reveal a large selection of colorful ties, all silkier than the last. Bold darks and shimmering pastel blues, a literal rainbow. 

Ian ran his hand over them slowly, smiling to himself. It was finally clear to him exactly why he had spent so much time, money and energy on his tie collection. One tie at a time though.

He found a strip of condoms and lube in the top drawer of a storage unit, along with a few other items that got him through the long dry spell. He tossed the items next to Mickey’s hip and removed the rest of his clothes.

Then his body covered Mickey’s. He connected their mouths, hips pressing into each other, Mickey’s thighs tight around his body, heels hooking Ian’s calves.

Ian shoved a hand under Mickey’s ass, lifting him off the mattress enough to get a handful of flesh. Their rutting got a little out of control, much like their breathing, and he slid a finger over Mickey’s hole, circling slowly.

The wooden slat creaked as Mickey yanked hard on his ties. Ian made a few more circles, pressing slightly and Mickey’s mouth went slack as he concentrated on what Ian was doing to his body. Ian rose up, his broad shoulders hovering over Mickey, taking his time to trail wet kisses from his throat to his collarbone and down to his V, ending with his cock.

As he pulled Mickey deep into his mouth, Ian found the lube. Mickey started rolling his hips faster when Ian’s wet finger slid inside, and his thighs tightened around Ian’s shoulders. Needing a little relief himself, Ian rolled his hips toward the mattress, keeping rhythm with Mickey. 

When his finger met with no resistance, he moved up Mickey’s body, sliding a strong arm under his lower back and pulling his ass flush to Ian’s hips. The ties were taut around the headboard, Mickey’s fingers gripping them tightly. They stared at each other.

_Intimate._

This time though, Ian didn’t run from it. He wanted it. He wanted this man to know exactly how he was feeling as he thrust in slowly, taking his time, feeling the glide of Mickey’s body taking him in, feeling their hips move together as their breathing picked up speed. He ran one slick hand up Mickey's side as he pushed in deeper.

When he was buried to the hilt, he ran his hand over Mickey’s bicep and up to the tie fastened to his wrist, checking his circulation. Then he pulled up enough to watch their hips meet, trapping Mickey’s cock between their bodies. Ian’s abs tightened at the sight, and he pressed them against Mickey’s.

Then he pressed his open mouth to Mickey’s, breathing with him as he tried to calm the tightening that threatened so he could properly kiss him. They managed a few messy kisses as Ian’s hips worked them both close to orgasm.

When Mickey’s breathing changed, Ian gripped his cock, sliding over him roughly once before coiling his finger and thumb around the base, squeezing, keeping Mickey from coming. He found the lube and managed to squeeze some onto Mickey, using his palm to massage it in while picking up speed with his hips.

But before Mickey could come, Ian slowed his movements, removing his hand. Mickey’s eyes opened, half angry, half confused. Ian looped his forefinger between Mickey’s wrist and the blue silk and tugged, hard enough to open the loop and allow Mickey to free his hand.

“Yeah,” he gasped, bringing both hands to Ian’s back, running them up and down then landing on his ass. He squeezed tight enough to get a grunt from Ian, and his knees tucked up near Ian’s shoulders. “Mm.”

Ian smiled into his neck and moved his hips faster and faster, as a layer of sweat formed between them and the sounds from Mickey’s mouth got louder and louder. He needed to get a hand between their bodies, but he was trapped between Mickey’s thighs. 

He gripped the side of Mickey’s hip tightly and flipped them over, landing on his back with a groan as Mickey’s weight bore down on him, sending waves of pleasure to every nerve ending in his body. Mickey groaned too, sitting up quickly as his ass started to move. Ian gripped his thighs to keep himself from losing it, but knew it was useless to even try when Mickey arched his back, cock bobbing with each thrust.

There was nothing Ian could do to stop his body from responding to the sight, and he fisted his hand around that cock and pumped, hoping Mickey was as close as he was to coming hard.

Ian’s calves, thighs and fists tightened, and he sucked in a lung full of air as his orgasm hit. Valiantly, he kept moving his hips, aiming blindly for Mickey’s prostate as his hand filled with warmth.

Then Mickey’s body flopped down on his, and they focused on simply breathing enough to keep themselves alive. Slowly, he became aware of their sweaty, messy bodies as well as everything that just went down between them. He could see the trail of material attached to Mickey’s wrist, he could smell sex on their bodies, and he could feel himself sliding out of Mickey’s ass.

“Fuck,” he hissed. 

Mickey chuckled into his neck. “Just realizing it, huh?”

“This isn’t funny, Mickey!” Ian squeezed his eyes shut in horror. “I’m so sorry, Jesus, the condoms are right fucking here!”

He grabbed the strip of Durex Invisibles off the comforter beside him, holding the unopened condoms up as evidence of his crimes.

“Well,” Mickey shrugged. “I’m 99% sure I’m clean. Been tested and basically a monk for too fucking long.”

“Me too, but still. It’s just...”

Mickey sat up, swinging a leg over Ian’s body. “Risky?” He swatted Ian’s thigh. Hard. “Get up. I need you to wash my back. There's a spot I can’t reach.”

Ian watched Mickey’s ass jiggle a little as he walked out of the bedroom, tie still trailing from his wrist, and he shot off the bed, nearly tripping over his long legs.


	25. Chapter 25

_Sunday, September 15th. Day 12_

Late Sunday morning, Mickey was cuddled into the space between Ian’s bare legs, back pressed to an equally bare chest as they sprawled on Ian’s king sized bed. Mickey slurped loudly, draining his coffee cup by tipping it up until his head rested on the naked shoulder behind him. Squinting at the remaining foam, he considered running his tongue along the inside of the mug. “Fucking cappuccino, man,” he sighed.

Ian’s chest rumbled. “I think we’ve created a monster.” He took the mug from Mickey’s hand, then set it next to Ian’s empty one on the nightstand, so their attention could return to the laptop on Mickey’s lap.

“Speaking of monsters,” Mickey snarked, eyes back on the screen cluttered with thumbnail images of Frank Gallagher.

“Welcome to my childhood nightmares, Mick.”

Giving Ian’s thigh a soothing pat, he added a tiny hip wiggle as he settled himself more firmly between Ian’s legs. “Gonna be worth it though. That asswipe won’t be sueing his fucking kids now.”

His finger tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos he’d taken with his iPhone from the fire escape of the dance studio where they’d caught Frank in the act. His leotard covered ass was pointed right at the camera, face dangling between his knees.

“Ick,” Ian spat. “Next please!”

Mickey flicked to the next photo. Frank was straddling an old lady who was seated on her walker. The colorful banner behind her read: Express your sexual urges through dance. Seniors welcome!

“Ahhh!” Ian’s finger hit the screen, swiping aggressively. Frank, one leg lifted up to the ballet bar. _Swipe_. Frank, grinding on another old lady while what appeared to be her husband swatted Frank’s ass in some sort of geriatric dance move. _Swipe_.

“Make it stop, Mickey!”

Chuckling but happy to comply, Mickey swiped to the final pic of Frank dangling over the edge of the fire escape, face enraged as he realized he was being photographed. “So much for his back injury or hemorrhoids or whatever the fuck he claimed happened when he did NOT slip.”

“Rotator cuff and slipped disc,” Ian reminded him.

Mickey twisted a little, stubbled cheeks rubbing together as he made eye contact with Ian. “If you say so. How do you wanna do this? Send ‘em to Frank with a warning or send ‘em straight to the insurance company?”

“Hm. Straight to the source,” Ian decided. “Let’s write him a threatening letter and include copies of the photos in the envelope.”

“You gonna mail it to the nearest homeless shelter?” Mickey asked.

“Nah,” Ian’s arms snaked around Mickey’s middle and his lips started pecking at his cheek. “I’ll leave it by the dumpster behind The Alibi.”

\-------

_Monday, September 16th. Day 13_

By lunchtime on Monday, their sexual comfort zone had bled down into the lower floor business area. At first, it was Mickey’s more-suggestive-than-ever warning to “blow” on the hot cappuccino that he’d delivered to Ian’s desk.

With a fucking coaster! 

Ian nearly carried him back up to the apartment when he placed his favorite blue mug on the sandstone coaster and flicked his eyebrows. “Never can be too careful, huh, boss?”

“Christ,” Ian murmured, unsure what part of that exchange turned him on the most.

Next it was the obscene amount of lip biting that accompanied the sound of the stapler affixing paper together. Ian watched through his office window as Mickey tucked the sheet of paper into color coded file folders then bent over the filing cabinet. Every movement was so exaggeratedly business professional that it would be ridiculous if Ian wasn’t so turned on by the mere fact that the man existed. 

When Buffy sailed in on a wave of Chanel, in her designer pantsuit and newly coiffed hair, Ian watched her interaction with Mickey before joining them in the reception area. They had arrived at a guarded peace apparently, and any worry that might have reared its head last week was replaced with something that felt like pride. 

Less than an hour later, Mickey had even more paper to staple and then file under Zamansky since she was officially their latest client. On her way out, she suggested that Ian’s secretary get the calendar ready because Mickey had taken the bridge world by storm, and Buffy had made sure they knew who had the good sense to hire him.

Happily, Mickey followed Ian into his office. The moment Ian’s ass hit his high-back ergonomic chair, his lap was full of Mickey, knees straddling Ian’s hips, hands gripping the back of the chair.

“I finished filing,” Mickey said, lips moving against Ian’s. “Cross-referenced the fuck outta those files.”

Ian swallowed hard, hands frantically working Mickey’s belt. “I _know_.”

“You were watching, huh?” His tongue swept around Ian’s mouth. “Was thinking of cleaning the bathroom this afternoon.”

Mickey’s belt zipped through the loops of his dark jeans and landed somewhere near the door. “Christ,” Ian moaned, yanking open the button and getting the zipper halfway down. “I want you.”

"On my knees, boss?" His tone of voice may have said _jokingly suggestive_ , but his eyes read _insistently pleading_.

"I'll think about it." His hand worked its way inside Mickey’s pants, feeling his hips grind against Ian’s palm and his cock filling. Adrenaline shot through Ian’s body, and he pulled his hand out of Mickey’s jeans, one arm around his waist so he could stand up. His free arm swept over the top of the desk taking papers, folders and the desk calculator with it. 

Their mouths never parted, Mickey’s arms stayed locked around his neck, and they immediately started grinding into each other. Between heavy breaths, Ian pushed up so they were nose to nose. "Bathroom. Now, Mickey."

Clearly on the same page, Mickey tugged once at Ian’s necktie so their lips connected, then he gave Ian’s chest a push, making his way out of the office to the small bathroom. And once again, Ian found himself following the goddamn tease and his swagger. 

Ian was on him before the bathroom door clicked, spinning him roughly so his back was flat against the wall and Ian’s hand could cup Mickey's crotch. There was no softness in his actions, and the fact that Mickey was gnawing at his lip, caressing it with his tongue wasn’t helping matters.

Lifting the hem of Mickey's shirt up his chest, he was free to explore the broad chest muscles, fingertips squeezing his nipples and travelling over smooth abdominals. Ian pressed himself into Mickey’s hip as they kissed with all the longing and passion that half a day spent five feet apart had produced.

Distracted by the kiss, Ian jumped a little when Mickey’s hand snaked its way into the front of Ian’s boxer briefs, gripping him tightly. “Christ,” he said for the umpteenth time today. His forehead butted against Mickey’s a little harder than he intended, making Mickey chuckle.

And the main reception phone rang. Their eyes met and held, while it continued to ring.

"Want me to get that?" Mickey asked, eyes twinkling with sexy flirtation that destroyed Ian every fucking time. "Or you want me to get this?" His hand squeezed around Ian, thumb moving suggestively.

Without warning, he gripped Mickey by the hips and flipped him around, so that he was leaning against the sink, facing the mirror.

"Look at me," he commanded.

Mickey tilted his chin up to the side, glancing backwards over his shoulder.

"No. Look at me in the mirror."

Mickey met Ian's eyes in the reflection, just as Ian pulled his hips back and tilted them upwards, pressing his thinly clothed erection against Mickey's plump cheeks.

"I want you to watch."

\------

Eventually their clothes were back in place, and they were grinning happily at each other from the front porch while Mickey puffed on a smoke. He’d inhale, eyes squinting from the smoke and watching Ian closely. As he exhaled, he’d tip his chin up to the sky exposing his throat for Ian’s perusal, clearly offering Ian the alpha dog role. Although they both knew there was nothing submissive about Mickey even with his throat bared.

A delivery truck pulled up just as he dropped the butt into an empty coconut water can left on The Divine Goddess’s side of the porch. The delivery guy rolled two giant boxes down the truck ramp and up to the house.

“Um,” he said, looking at the digital form. “Delivery from Chair Paradise.”

“Oh!” Ian leaped forward, signing the screen and hauling one of the boxes through the door to the office. “Grab the other one, Mick.”

“Better be an actual fucking chair this time,” he muttered, but nodded at the delivery dude and followed Ian inside with the second box.

Ian’s muffled voice carried to him from across the office. “Did you see the stain on that chair?” 

“No.” 

“Super unprofessional to expect your client to sit on a dirty chair,” Ian explained, jamming the utility knife into the tape along the top of the box. 

“Especially when it’s technically not even a fucking chair.” He caught the instruction manual Ian tossed at him. “Ian, seriously, a chair should not need a manual.”

Ignoring him, Ian continued with his uptight businessman routine. “Upkeep and attention are essential.”

“Mhm.”

“I have room for the old chairs up in my living room.” 

“Oh, I thought you were gonna say in the dumpster out back.” The side of the box fell open, revealing yet another blue chair. Mickey tipped his head to the left. “Which end is up?”

“Ha ha, help me get the old ones upstairs.”

“I’d rather break the new chairs in, if you know what I mean.” He flicked his eyebrows a few times to make sure Ian knew exactly what he meant. “Best to practice before our clients get here.”

Ian jammed the utility knife into the second box, but left it there to share a few sweet kisses that quickly became less sweet. 

“You think our clients are going to bang in these chairs?” Ian murmured between kisses.

“Not on my watch, they aren’t.” Mickey worked open one of the buttons on Ian’s dress shirt. “So what color tie are you gonna use tonight?” Mickey asked.

“Chri--” The rest was cut off when Ian jumped away from him like he’d been bit. Mickey whipped around to find Amethyst standing in the lobby, Reuben purring in her arms. When they only stared at her, she worked Reuben’s paw into a little wave.

“Say hello, Reuben.”

"Is there something I can help you with?" Mickey cleared his throat, doing his best to find his balls from wherever they’d hidden. This chick for all her free love propaganda scared the living shit out of him. By the feel of Ian’s fingers digging into his hip, Ian wasn’t in much better shape. In fact, he could have sworn he heard Ian mumble something about his prostate.

"Yes," she cooed, dropping Reuben to the carpet where he prowled over to Ian’s new chair, sniffing in interest. Mickey willed him to let loose his lunch on it. “My intuitive is looking to invest.”

“You’re in...what?” Mickey wanted to smack his forehead.

She smiled and Ian’s hand tightened. “Oh, sorry, you’re probably thinking of a psychic. Many people confuse them, of course. But just remember that all intuitives are psychic but not all psychics are mediums.”

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey whined, turning slightly toward the other man. “What is she saying?” 

Clearing his throat, Ian donned his metaphorical cape, making Mickey smile slightly. "When you say investing, you mean..." There was a very real possibility that Amethyst thought Ian did something radically different from what he actually did.

"To help her invest her finances, yes? Accounting help?" She smiled brightly, dark curls bouncing as she nodded at them. "I gave her the number of my long-time astrologer, but she was looking for something a little more structured."

"That's probably for the best," Mickey agreed.

"She's free this afternoon, if you've got time?"

Ian glanced at Mickey, who shrugged. They’d fielded several calls today, but this afternoon was wide open.

"Sure! Have her call us up and leave her info, and we'll put her in the books." Ian’s head was bobbing along with hers now.

"Actually, she's right next door. Julia is a dear friend of mine who will be teaching several of my favorite clients tantric yoga. We're already overbooked, but I'd make a special exception for the two of you, of course." She looked at them with warm care. "Since we are all one!"

Mickey disagreed. "Yeah, a room packed wall to wall with rich yuppie kids looking to Eat, Pray, Love their way through their inheritance sounds like how I wanna spend my day."

Ian waffled, ignoring Mickey’s mumbled complaints. "And she'd be willing to meet with me after the class?"

"Indeed. What a perfect opportunity to create union around necessity! A life-altering investment plan for her, and mind-blowing techniques for the two of you to transfer your sexual energy into spiritual connection!" She was really into this idea, if the crazy gleam in her eyes was any indication. "I can see your paths sewing themselves together as we speak!"

Mickey shot Ian a *don't you dare!* look, but Ian pulled him toward the back office after motioning to Amethyst to give them a moment. 

“Mickey,” he whispered, pulling him forward by the hips and bowing their heads together. “You said yourself that we need to get to know our clients on a human level to build their trust. Plus it’s how I’ll know if they’re the right client for me, you know?”

Rolling his eyes to the great divine, Mickey cleared his throat and looked at their visitor. "I guess we'll see you there, but I ain’t wearing a leotard."

\------

“Okay,” Ian said with a deep breath, hand on the doorknob of The Great Divine while the tinkle of bells emanated from the inside. The door swung open and incense nearly knocked them over. “Right, we’re doing this so we can help this Julia person evaluate the likelihood of her financial security.”

“Using numbers not crystal fucking balls.”

Ian glanced over his shoulder at Mickey and grinned, thinking maybe this would end up being fun because he was doing it with this guy.

About a dozen second generation rich kids had their yoga mats spread out in Amethyst’s large gathering room, the walls decorated with wiccan art and the shelves filled with crystals, tarot cards, incense, knickknacks, and sale items Ian didn’t recognize. 

Amethyst clapped her hands in delight, wrists jangling with metal bracelets. “Welcome! I’ve set you up here,” she pointed at two hot pink yoga mats at the front of the room, “to ensure you have a clear view of our tantric master.”

And at that moment, a younger, more petite version of Amethyst joined them. Her soft brown hair flowed over her shoulders, green eyes sparkling against her purple athletic wear. 

She smiled and Ian felt himself smiling along with her.

A bald guy with a long beard and a yoga mat next to Ian’s piped up. “Is she your sister?”

The Lululemon behind him added, “You guys look so much alike!”

Amethyst and Julia smiled and giggled in that animated but quiet way that people do when they want to deflect a compliment that they know to be true. Amethyst put a hand to her collarbone, flattered. “Goodness, no, but thank you for thinking so! What a compliment!”

Julia blushed. “The compliment is all mine, I insist!”

“Julia is a friend of mine. She’s opening her own dance studio in the spring,” Amethyst made her way to the back of the room, sending a knowing wink at Ian, cluing him in, “and has graciously offered to join me in teaching tantric yoga sessions until then.”

“As they say where I am from, _‘Ich freu mich sehr, dass ihr so zahlreich erschienen seid und darauf mit euch in die Welt des tantrischen Yogas einzutauchen’_ , which means ‘I am very happy that so many of you are here today. I am looking forward to entering the world of tantric yoga together with all of you’.”

"Ohmygod I love your accent,” Lululemon sighed. “Are you from Sweden?"

From the front row, Ian huffed a laugh at the North Side GenZ-er and shook his head. "It's German, right? You're from Germany?"

" _Ja_! I am speaking German, you are correct. How perceptive!" She stepped forward, placing a gentle hand on his bicep. "I am from Austria, but you were so close! You must be as smart as you are handsome."

“Harumpf.”

Ian glanced sideways at Mickey’s response. His lips were pursed as he chewed the inside of his cheek, eyebrows rising.

"Wow..." She marvelled at the space around Ian's head, eyes trailing at hues that only she could see. "The colors of your aura are also beautiful!"

Ian blushed, confused, and already sensing Mickey's haunches up. "Thank you. I try to, um, stay positive." He nodded politely as her hand continued to hover over his pectorals, muscles flexing under his white tank.

"I am sensing _strong_ vibrations from your heart chakra. You have a powerful gift for emotional space…capable of such great intimacy and bonding." She pressed her hand down softly. "This must make lovemaking quite vigorous for you and your partner!”

Ian’s head whipped to the side in time to see Mickey’s eyes bug out at the overt display of affection. “Ay! I don’t see you feeling up anyone else’s chakras,” he scowled, gesturing toward the fascinated yogis. “Why don’t you go feel up Crusty there!” He angled his thumb toward the back row and the scrawny Timothee Chalamet lookalike in a wool beanie, fluffy curls poking out everywhere.

Julia smiled gracefully, taking Mickey’s antics instride like she was intimately familiar with them. “It reminds me so much of my husband's aura. You must have a lot in common." Her eyes travelled to Mickey. “Someone with a throat chakra as healthy as yours must really benefit from such a… how do you say… symbiotic relationship?”

Amethyst hummed softly from her place in the back. “The gift of authentic self-expression, yes. Our hearts need to engage in a mutually intimate express with others, so our emotional longings for loving feedback are not just illusory--they are a deep and essential type of nourishment, to our flow of human connection.”

“I don’t speak hippie,” Mickey grumbled.

Ian suppressed his smile. “I think she just means people should talk to each other, like, communicate, ya know.”

Julia stepped towards Mickey. "Your love must be one full of passion and intensity!"

Mickey’s eyes squeezed shut, and he grimaced, making Ian want to thank him for agreeing to do this then hug him until he squirmed to get free. 

"Maybe. I don’t know." Mickey crossed his arms, but also simmered down once he was acknowledged as Ian's full-time Plus One.

Amethyst raised her palms up, bringing them together in a prayer pose. “What is abundant love without healing, and what is verbalization without vulnerability?”

The room sighed as one, and Mickey stepped onto Ian’s mat in agitation, just as Beard-o beside him piped up again. “I was meditating the other day and I fell asleep, like, hardcore. Does that mean that I have a really, really strong crown chakra, or…?”

Ian stifled a laugh and pressed into Mickey’s arm. The sides of the brunet’s mouth quirked up, and it became clear to both of them that there was more to enjoy in this class than meets the eye.

Julia began the class. "Now, we’ll begin with Downward Facing Dog, focusing on our pelvic floor muscles, which are essential to sustaining a longer, more fulfilling orgasm." 

Yup, there was more than meets the eye, all right.

"Mickey, may I begin my demonstration with you?" She placed a hand on his lower back, gently pressing him forward. “Your hips are so open! We could all learn from you.”

Mickey: 😨

\------

“Who knew tantric yoga could be so damn relaxing?” Mickey mused, inhaling deeply on the smoke between his fingers, enjoying the buzz of contentment.

“Well, probably everyone who’s ever taken it.” Ian chuckled when Mickey blew smoke into his face.

They were headed on foot to Subway, which had kind’ve become “their place” since Mickey liked to bring them lunch regularly. However, tonight, Ian had invited him to dinner at the sandwich shop.

“Is this a fucking date?” he’d asked in response, and Ian had grinned. “I thought you had to have utensils and shit for it to classify as a date, man.”

“I’m sure they got some plastic forks somewhere in the shop.”

Mickey nodded, satisfied. “So you bag that Julia chick?” At Ian’s puzzled eyebrow, he clarified, “As a _client_ , numbnuts. I think I made it pretty damn clear your freckled ass is taken.” 

Ian laughed heartily, tilting his head back and wrapping an arm around Mickey’s shoulder. Seems the yoga class had him feeling more openly affectionate than usual. 

“I did. The appointment next week is to formalize things, but she’s basically signed on. Even got a couple others interested. Hal wants--”

“Who the fuck…” He remembered the lanky kid in the beanie and Lululemon huddling around Ian and Julia for the duration of their chat. “You mean Crusty?”

“Sure. Yeah, turns out his dad died and left him a pile of cash. Believe it or not, he’s looking to take all of that inheritance and invest it wisely.” Ian released a deep breath, getting Mickey’s attention. 

“What? He not a good fit or something? Cause that beanie set off warnings in my brain, let me tell ya.”

“No, no, it’s just...nothing.” Ian stepped off the sidewalk to cross the street leading to the strip mall, but Mickey remained on the sidewalk. “Hey, you coming?”

“Not until you spit it out.”

Ian stopped in the middle of the street, watching him. “Fine, come on.” When Mickey joined him, he fessed up. “Just got a little freaked out when I entered their names in the appointment book for next week.”

Mickey nudged his shoulder. “That’s cause you’re doing my job, man.”

They smiled in the dusky light, a Volkswagen Beetle passing behind them. “And you do it spectacularly.”

“Let’s not get carried away. But yeah, you made your wisest business decision hiring me, Gallagher.”

“Agreed. We’re a team, partners even.”

Mickey’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and a combo of pleasure and pressure welled in his gut. This smelled like serious responsibility, but it felt right. It felt like it was time. “Yeah, partners. Now tell your partner why you freaked out because you had to enter an appointment.”

“Did you see next week’s schedule? It’s booked almost solid, Mickey.”

“Annnnd?” he prompted but Ian remained silent. “You worried we don’t have enough coffee pods? Cause I’m gonna grab more this weekend. Do a shop. Maybe go to fucking Costco, shit’s way cheaper there.”

Ian started to laugh, even bending at the waist a little, palms flat to his thighs. 

“Fuck’s so funny, dickhead?”

Pressing his lips together to suppress more laughter, Ian shrugged. “Nothing, just thinking about that guy who walked through ICG’s doors a couple weeks ago. What would he say to a Costco run?”

Mickey punched his shoulder and started walking across the parking lot toward the Subway. “He’d a cut you for suggesting such a thing. But people change. They fucking grow up and face their...fears.” 

Surprisingly, saying that didn’t make Mickey feel vulnerable. It might have made the goddamn energy flow or whatever those chicks said. Making a quick decision, he stopped beneath the Subway overhang. “I wanna make a pitstop first.”

“Sure,” Ian agreed as they walked one more block down, past the nail salon, the liquor store, the Pan-Asian restaurant. “You really think people actually change?”

“You think I just said all that for shits and giggles?” He stopped shortly before they got to The Corner Bar, and Ian’s eyes got big.

“Why are we here, Mickey?” 

Ignoring Ian, he strolled through the door to Jamba Juice, heading straight for the two boys behind the counter where they served smoothies to their customers with a smile, turning simultaneously when the door jingled. 

Breyon shrieked audibly and ducked beneath the counter, while the boy in the orange vest froze comically, mouth ajar, eyes darting left and right.

"Ay, Bucky my man, how's the wife and kids?" He heard Ian chuckle behind him.

"M-M-Mr. Milkovich?" Benny's voice trembled.

Mickey rapped his knuckles on the counter. "I'll have a PB & banana protein smoothie."

Ian leaned forward and curled an arm around Mickey's collarbone from behind him, probably intending to wrestle Mickey to the ground if he got out of hand, and that thought made him extremely happy. "And I'll have a kale-ribbean breeze. Gotta say, your last one got me hooked."

Breyon peered over the edge of the counter. "I--"

"Anyway, I'm here cause I got some fucking business to take care of.” Mickey pressed his chest against the counter, purposely locking eyes with the pimply ginger manager.  
“Stand up, kid.”

Breyon obeyed, but moved partially behind Benny, and his left hand reached for the scissors they used to trim the wheatgrass. Mickey nodded, impressed with his initiative.

"You were right to fire me, man."

"Huh?" Breyon’s fingers gripped the shears tightly.

"Yeah. I sure as shit wasn't any good to this place, and uh--" He looked up at Ian who was still holding him tight. "-- not gonna lie, it worked out for me."

He glanced at Benny the statue. "Dude, I'm starving. Don't leave me hangin' here." Benny booked it to the blenders, adding ingredients like he was in the smoothie World Cup championships.

"So, yeah," Mickey concluded with a grin, "You ever wanna get yourself something better than that old travelling-grandpa-mobile out there," he hooked his thumb towards the Winnebago parked closest to the road. "Give us a holler and we'll get your finances situated and shit."

Ian chuckled, pulling out a business card from his pocket and handing it to the shell shocked manager. Breyon accepted it, brandishing it like Mickey had dipped it in venom. The industrial blender slowed to a crawl as Benny tried to eye the card from afar.

“Chop chop. I got a hot date, here, and if I'm not protein'd up to the eyeballs and ready for another round of bangin' soon, I'm a hold both of you responsible. This guy,” he nudged his head in Ian’s direction, “wears me out.”

Ian sighed at Mickey as the contents of the blender spilled down Benny's orange vest, wasting a perfectly good Kale-ribbean Breeze.

\------

“You sure you want these weird ass chairs cluttering up your living room?” Mickey asked, sucking on his finger where he’d smashed it between the doorframe and the second weird ass chair they’d hauled upstairs.

“What do you have against these chairs, Mick?” Ian stared at them tucked between his two bookcases filled with all his old textbooks. 

You seriously asking me that question?” He collapsed into the sleek, blue pod-shaped chair, sinking slowly into it, incrementally further with each tick of the clock. Sort of like a cartoon, Ian couldn’t help but think. 

When his legs slid back and his feet began to angle up into the air, Ian decided to shift the mood away from the chairs and toward sex. He tilted his head a little. “Never tried that position…”

"Shut the fuck up. You couldn't even reach my ass in this damn thing."

"Nothing to fear, I’ll reach your ass no matter where it is. Here, I'll help you." 

Ian held out a hand, pulling him up and out of the way, so he could proceed to show off his cat-like maneuvers as he got comfy in the chair, even releasing a contented sigh and closing his eyes. Maybe he was making a point, but he did like how the chairs supported his back. 

The relaxed pose was interrupted when he felt Mickey crawl into his lap, pressing kisses into his neck. "You're right. 'M starting to feel better already."


	26. Chapter 26

Additional artwork by [Gallavich_Doodles](https://www.instagram.com/gallavich_doodles/).


	27. Chapter 27

_Tuesday, September 24th. Day 21_

“Jesus, Gallagher, you’re gonna bleed out if you keep shaving like that.” 

Mickey took the razor from Ian’s death grip, his tattooed fingers tipping Ian’s chin up a little, so he could run the blade slowly along his throat. Their eyes met, and heat flared, but Mickey pocketed those thoughts. They had a big fucking day ahead of them. In fact, the whole last week had been pretty damn hectic and no break was on the horizon.

“What’s up?” he asked instead.

“I’m...I don’t know, upset a little, I guess,” Ian stammered as Mickey swiped the face cloth over Ian’s jaw and neck. “Cause my mom died two years ago today.”

“Well, shit, why didn’t you tell me?” Mickey caressed his cheek lightly, checking for stray stubble because he knew that Ian would be off his game all day if he discovered an unshaved patch somewhere. God save them if he discovered it during one of his five client meetings he had scheduled throughout the day.

“Didn’t realize it was going to...bother me like this?”

Mickey massaged a little aftershave lotion into Ian’s skin, and Ian nuzzled his fingers. 

“You miss her?”

“Maybe, sometimes, sorta.” He ran a hand over his jaw, nodding in approval. “You’re good at this.”

“Pretty sure it’s a secretary’s job to shave his boss,” he smirked, pushing Ian out the bathroom door toward the bedroom. “It’s also his job to select a tie.”

That idea put a skip in Mickey’s step, and he walked straight to Ian’s closet, which he viewed as the most important room in the apartment. “Let’s see…” 

He ran his fingers over the ties, each hung according to color. Mickey was intimately familiar with several items from the extensive collection, having them around both his neck during the day and his wrists at night. He’d taken to dressing a little more professionally since the reception area of ICG had become so fucking busy that he’d barely gotten a nap in during work hours.

Pausing on a bright yellow silky thing, he tugged it free from the hook, thinking it would maybe inspire some happy feelings in his boss. Ian had finished sliding the buttons of his pale blue dress shirt into place, so Mickey could flip his collar up and loop the tie around his neck, adjusting the ends.

“Windsor?” he asked, scanning his mind for all the different knots Ian had been teaching him. “Keep shit simple today.”

Ian just looked at him, saying nothing and making Mickey swallow dryly. He began to cross and thread the wide end of the material over Ian’s chest, while watching the muscles in Ian’s throat contract too. 

With the knot complete, he tugged it into place making sure the ends were symmetrical then laying the collar neatly over the yellow material. “Fucking hot,” he murmured, giving the tie one more tug but, this time, so he could kiss Ian lightly. “You gonna be okay? With your mom and all that?”

He kept Ian close, fingers refusing to release him until he got a response. “Yup, I got you.”

After one more long look, he stepped away from Ian. “Look at us communicatin’.” 

“And not with our dicks.”

Pretending to shudder, Mickey headed out of the bathroom. “Let’s not make a habit of that, Gallagher.”

\------

“I said line two, Ian. Fuck,” Mickey yelled from his desk to the harried man in the adjoining office. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to finish his second cappuccino and his addicted ass was feeling it.

They’d entered the office an hour ago to a ringing phone and another fucking delivery. At first, he was thankful that it wasn’t more torture devices masquarding as chairs, but instead it was a letter he’d needed to sign for. His relief was short-lived though when the bicycle helmet wearing delivery guy said, “You’ve been served.”

Mickey’s “K” finger poked the dude in the chest. “Not fucking likely.”

The guy clutched his clipboard to his chest, stepping away. “You signed on behalf of ICG Insurance and Actuary Services,” he accused weakly.

“Cause you tricked me, you punk.” He advanced a step, preparing to scare the little shit into coughing up the signed form, but Ian arrived to stop him and the guy fled.

Ian took the envelope after a brief tug-o-war, so Mickey produced his pocket knife offering it to Ian as a letter opener. He slid one sheet of paper out, green eyes scanning the page and jaw tightening the closer he got to the end.

When he couldn’t take it any longer, Mickey ripped it from Ian’s hands, searching his face before reading. Unable to read Ian’s expression, he scanned the letter himself, noting the lawyer-y sounding name in the letterhead and knowing this wasn’t going to end well.

Less than a minute later, he tossed the letter on his desk and headed toward the coffee station. “That’s it. No more Mister Nice Guy,” he said, more to himself than Ian. “I’m shipping his ass off to Mexico, and he’s never coming back here to fuck with you or this business again.”

Ian nodded and walked back to his office. Before he was through the door, Mickey added, “He had his chance to back the fuck off when we sent him the photos, but if Frank thinks he can continue to threaten lawsuits then he’s gonna find out how fucking wrong he is.”

Then the phone rang and Mickey tossed the coffee pod back into the tray. “Goddamn phones. Doesn’t anyone text anymore?”

\------

When the last of Buffy’s cronies walked out the front door, it signalled the end of Ian’s appointments for the day, but just the beginning of all the damn paperwork that came with having clients. Mickey daydreamed about the old days of kicking his feet on the desk and sipping caffeine when Ian walked through his office door into reception.

He knew the moment Ian lost his shit by the way he pursed his lips and angled his chin, but Mickey wasn’t sure what had caused the scales to tip this time. Scanning the day, he recalled that Ian had forgotten to charge his phone before bed last night and, when he’d realized that he’d missed several texts because his phone was dead, he’d sworn for two minutes straight, more cussing than Mickey had heard from him since they’d met. 

He also recalled listening to Ian slam every drawer in his office until he finally emerged, stomped up the stairs, back down again and slammed his office door. Mickey had tentatively poked his head in asking what was up, and Ian had explained that he was out of plain yellow post-it notes and hadn’t written it on his to-do list. There hadn’t been much that Mickey could say in response to that, so he’d returned to the coffee maker only to be interrupted by the goddamn phone again.

Now it was almost 4:00pm, and Ian was standing in the middle of reception staring at the _Insurance & Risk Management Weekly_ magazines. Mickey bit his lip, cursing internally that he hadn’t noticed that they were tossed around the coffee table haphazardly after the revolving door of visitors had tried to read them. He made a mental note to get some interesting reading material.

Ian bent over the table, gathering up the magazines, tapping the ends to align them then setting them back down carefully. From his position behind the reception desk, Mickey scanned the rest of the office, seeing for the first time the stack of dirty coffee mugs, the overflowing inbox of bills on his desk, their uneaten lunch, and the envelope containing what was fast becoming Frank’s death certificate.

Then he watched Ian notice each of these things and probably a dozen more that were invisible to Mickey’s non-uptight ass.

“I need Greg’s file,” Ian said more to himself than to Mickey as he headed straight for the filing cabinet. Opening the second drawer, he flicked through until he found the blue file he was looking for. “Where’s the shareholder equity statement?”

He looked up at Mickey, eyes accusing. They held eye contact as Ian obviously waited for a response that Mickey was never going to be able to give him. How the fuck should he know? His job was to stuff shit into the folders not read it, so he remained silent except for his eyebrows. They were a statement of their own, and Ian could read them to his heart’s content.

“I gave it to you last week,” Ian continued not heeding Mickey’s facial warnings. “How fucking hard is it to file a peice of fucking paper, Mickey?”

All that got was a simple neck crack as Mickey worked to calm himself. No sense two of them losing their shit.

“Jesus Christ, this could cost us a client!”

Feeling rage boiling now, Mickey tapped his lower lip refusing to revisit the many times he’d heard those kinds of accusations growing up.

But when Ian slammed the file drawer closed with enough force to rock the cabinet, Mickey shot out of his seat, ready for fucking war. “Fuck you!”

Again they locked eyes, breathing heavily, engaged in a battle of wills. Mickey was sick of people accusing him of shit, and the last person on this planet he could take it from was this man. He yanked on the top drawer of his desk hard enough to nearly pull the handle off. His smokes and apartment keys sat there waiting for him to grab. He hadn’t been home in days, and maybe it was fucking time.

Instead he slammed the drawer closed, leaving everything where it was because he’d fucking _grown_. Stomping over to the file cabinet, he glared at Ian, who stepped aside to allow Mickey to open the top drawer and pull out a yellow folder. If Mickey wasn’t so fucking furious, he would have noticed that the folder matched the tie he’d picked for Ian that morning before Ian started to unravel.

He shoved the folder into Ian’s hands, and a moment later, Ian looked up at him with sad, defeated eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“Yeah, well, you said to file the financial shit with yellow folders.”

“I know. This is my fault.” He tapped the folder once with his index finger, lips pressed together. “Um, thanks. You’re doing a great job.”

He nodded and turned away, heading toward his office. A quiet, “glad one of us is,” trailing behind him. Mickey remained where he was, unsure if he was calm enough to talk about what just went down without making matters worse, so he sat down, pulling the inbox toward his chest and started pushing paper.

\------

Just before 5:00pm, the front door opened, and Mickey wanted to scream. He was sure they didn’t have an appointment, so whoever it was could fuck the hell off. His high strung employer hadn’t emerged from his office for the last hour, and Mickey had spent that time wondering if he should give the guy space by going home or if he should demand Ian talk shit out.

His peevishness vanished when Bernie’s face appeared through the doorway. Jumping up, Mickey started to smile a hello, thinking maybe he’d get himself invited for dinner if things stayed tense between him and Ian.

Just as he sensed Ian arrive in the reception area, the water jug in Bernie’s arms hit the soft blue carpet, and Bernie grunted, hands reaching for his lower back. “Shit,” he groaned.

"No, Bernie! Don’t move." Ian sprinted across the room, meeting Mickey as they helped Bernie relax onto one of the new chairs.

Wincing in pain, Bernie put on a fake smile. “Nice chairs. Are they new?”

Mickey snorted, but Ian was too far down guilt trip lane to register the comment. “Do we need to call an ambulance?”

“Hell no,” Bernie said, adjusting his position. “It’s just my slipped disc. Happens a lot.”

Thinking of the very different road trip Frank was going on with his slipped disc, Mickey asked, “Why don’t you get it fixed or whatever?” 

“As soon as I can take a few weeks off to recover, I will.” He paused looking between the two hovering men and reluctantly added. “But it’s kind’ve pointless if I return to hauling water.”

Ian stood up, and Mickey wanted to sigh. He liked Bernie a hell of a lot, and he wanted to help the guy out anyway he could, but beating himself up wasn’t going to get shit done. “Well, first we gotta get you home, old man.”

“You can say that again. Shit, back in the day, I was hauling carbon fiber exhaust systems without batting an eyelash.” His sigh was almost as worrisome as Ian’s.

“How ‘bout I drive you and your van home,” Mickey offered.

“Yeah, I don’t think my pride is going to win this round.” He winced again. “Raine can drive you back.”

He helped Bernie stand, tucking a shoulder under his arm and together they started toward the door, which was still open. Ian stood beside the ridiculous chair Bernie had just vacated, watching them leave, but Mickey could only deal with one person’s shit at a time.

\------

Ian’s apartment was dark when Mickey returned two hours later with a Tupperware container of lasagna and a six pack of Bud. For about thirty seconds, he’d entertained the thought of spending the night in his shitty apartment but couldn’t find even one lame ass reason to be away from Ian for a whole night. Not even a petty fight seemed like reason enough.

Despite the grumbling in his stomach, he didn’t want to eat until the two of them had cleared the air, so he grabbed a beer before putting the rest in the fridge along with their supper. Cracking the cap, he guzzled, belched and headed to the bedroom to face the redhead.

Enough moonlight shone through the slightly open curtains to see that Ian was in bed, facing away from the door, covers pulled up to his neck. It was only a little after 7:00pm, which didn’t bode well. Mickey guzzled the rest of the beer, while he stood at the doorway waiting to see if Ian would acknowledge him because he knew the guy was awake. Nobody was that tense during REM.

After a few minutes, Mickey gave in. “Hey,” he began but came up short for a follow up statement. He sort’ve wanted to ask what his fucking problem was since the guy had harped about wanting more clients so he could save the world, but now that he had them he was hiding in bed like a pussy.

That was the old Mickey though, the one who had his father’s voice in his head. The new Mickey, the one who seemed to like having Ian’s voice in his head, set the empty beer bottle on the dresser, tossing his vest beside it and kicking his boots next to Ian’s loafers, which threw him for a loop. Since when did Ian leave his shoes in the middle of his bedroom floor instead of lining them up next to the dozen pairs in his closet?

He scanned the rest of the room. Ian’s dress pants and shirt were on the floor next to his loafers, and his yellow tie was in the vicinity of the closet, like he’d considered putting it away but changed his mind and dumped it without caring that it would wrinkle. 

For a moment, Mickey panicked knowing he was in over his head because his brain was coming up empty. How the fuck do you talk about shit when you aren’t even sure what shit it you were dealing with? Ian was obviously stressing out, giving up on life but Mickey had no idea why. Wasn’t everything going great? Aside from the goddamn phone that wouldn’t shut up, Mickey thought they were maybe on track to pay a few of the bills he’d opened today.

“Ian,” he tried again.

His muffled voice emerged from the blankets.“Leave me alone. _Please_.” 

That burst of anger returned, making Mickey want to lash out, accuse Ian of being petty and childish, demand he get his ass out of bed. And maybe beg him, just a little, to pay attention to Mickey because he’d sort’ve gotten used to that attention and missed it.

Instead, he undressed down to his underwear, then slipped under the comforter behind Ian, shifting until he was pressed against the overheated body.

“Hey,” he tried again, refusing to give up until he understood what was happening. Hell, if he had to call fucking Amethyst or her tantric master to arrange Ian’s goddamn chakras, he would. While he figured out what to say next, he pressed his hand into Ian’s chest, holding him close. His lips rested against his bare shoulder.

“How’s Bernie?” Ian asked, voice cracking just a little. 

“Good actually. We sorted some shit out and got dinner outta the deal.”

“What shit?” Ian stiffened a little.

“Well, I made an executive decision, since we’re partners and all.” When Ian remained silent, he continued. “Raine is gonna come work for us for a couple weeks, help get our bookkeeping and shit in order since we’re booming apparently. Then Bernie can take the time to get fixed up.”

Ian shifted, looking over his shoulder, searching Mickey’s face.

“Sound good?”

“Yes.” Ian returned to his fetal position, but his hand covered Mickey’s where it lay on his chest. “That’s good.”

“Was thinking if she’s a fit, maybe she could continue to help us out part time. Guess she did some business training and shit. Bernie says she ran their bike shop all those years, while he focused on fixing the bikes.”

Ian nodded, squeezing Mickey’s fingers. “What about after? He can’t go back to that job.”

“Yup,” Mickey agreed. “One problem a day.”

Mickey could feel Ian disagreeing just by the way his muscles tensed. “More like a hundred problems a day.”

“Accurate.”

“But we can only be responsible for solving one per day,” Mickey said. “Only human, man.”

Silence except for the sound of wind outside threatening to turn into a storm.

“Ian,” he whispered. “What’s going on?”

Ian’s heart beat faster under his palm. “I have an anxiety disorder,” he said quietly. “My head gets fucked up when there’s too many things to worry about, and I end up unable to function sometimes.”

“Like when the magazines aren’t perfect?”

“Guess so.” 

Mickey waited, wishing Ian would turn over and look at him but figuring it probably made it easier on the guy to not have to see Mickey’s worry while he opened up. “You get stressed when shit isn’t perfect.”

“Yeah.”

“Cause you think shit can be perfect?”

“Not really, obviously,” he huffed. 

“Seems like it makes shit worse to worry about every little fucking thing, especially shit that don’t matter.” 

By now, Ian had their fingers twined, and Mickey started to relax. He may not really understand the inside of Ian’s brain, but he was willing to try if Ian was willing to explain.

“I...I feel like if I can get everything just right then...it’ll be okay. Then I can relax.”

Mickey could understand that since he’d felt fucking helpless growing up with a mean old man, who made sure his offspring never relaxed or had any control over their lives. But he also got that trying to be in control of every detail set you up for failure.

“There’s just so fucking much,” Ian whispered. “Something always ends up slipping through, and I go crazy trying to manage it all. Then I fucking crash. Even small daily things are too much, let alone a dozen new clients who are going to rely on me. For their _financial security_. Jesus, what was I thinking?”

They laid quietly for a several minutes, while Mickey absorbed Ian’s confession and worked it through his own life experiences. “Maybe it was hard before, ya know, cause you were doing it all alone. Didn’t have a partner.”

Ian’s fingers tightened around Mickey’s. “Maybe.”

“Maybe you rely on me a little, yeah?” Now it was Mickey’s turn to feel a wave of anxiety, but he didn’t let it show.

“Yeah.”

“Hey, there’s some kick-ass lasagna in the fridge going to waste. Was hoping you’d eat it with me.” After a minute, Mickey pushed a little harder to get Ian out of bed. “Please.”

Ian released his fingers and flipped over, so they were nose to nose on his pillow. “You sure you wanna be my partner, Mickey. I’m sorta a mess.”

“Who isn’t?”

“There’s things you don’t know,” he added cryptically, but somehow it didn’t set off alarms in Mickey’s mind. He felt certain that it was going to be more of Ian’s fretting not something that they couldn’t handle.

“I’m listening.”

Releasing a burst of air into Mickey’s face, Ian looked him in the eye. “When my mom died, she had thousands of dollars worth of meth on her. I used some of it to start ICG.”

Mickey knew his eyes doubled in size because he hadn’t been prepared for that confession. “Shit.”

“I feel like this whole thing is...fucking cursed. That I don’t deserve success.”

Nodding a little now that he had a hint as to why Monica’s death was extra hard on the guy, Mickey scoffed. “I don’t think it’s the meth, man. I think you think you don’t deserve success, period.”

Ian just stared at him, possibly waiting for Mickey to continue but he felt unsure how to proceed. What he’d said had been instinctual not premeditated, so he kissed Ian quickly to buy some time and maybe find some divine guidance.

“You’re listening to the shit your brain is telling you. Voices from the past, probably fucking Frank’s,” Mickey paused letting himself imagine the prick wandering the Mexican desert for the rest of his life. “I don’t know shit about this, but do you think you need to see a doctor?”

“I have, even tried meds but never stayed on them because they didn’t really work.”

“Did you actually give them a chance?” he challenged.

“I don’t know.” Ian kissed him lightly. “Maybe all I need is some lasagna.”

“Sure, but don’t think this is the end of our little heart to heart, man.”

They parted, exiting the bed on opposite sides. Mickey waited for Ian to join him before leaving the bedroom. As the microwave heat the lasagna, Mickey pulled Ian against him, feeling their bare chests and boxer briefs pressed together. They stayed that way until the microwave dinged.

Mickey led them over to the stupid ass pod chair, waiting until Ian was seated to squeeze in beside him, half on his lap. They dug their forks into the meal, and Ian’s eyes widened when he got his first taste. 

“Yum.”

“Shit’s got carrots in it,” Mickey marvelled. 

“Amazing. Why doesn’t she sell her cooking?”

“Could. Muffins are the bomb too.”

They ate in silence for a bit, watching each other chew until it got weirdly sexual and they started laughing. 

“So we’re partners?” Ian said suddenly, licking his fork clean.

“I mean not _officially_ , but, yeah.”

Ian nodded. “You know what you’re getting into now.”

“A little bit of crazy? Pfft, seen worse, man.” Mickey tossed the container and forks on the desk beside them. “You know what you’re getting into too.”

They kissed, the flavor of lasagna on their tongues, the sound of their breaths competing with the patter of rain on the living room window. Ian’s long legs twisted the oversized chair back and forth, rocking them quietly. 

Eventually, their lips parted and they rested against each other. Ian spoke quietly. “I’ve got a partner _and_ a lover.”

\------

_Tuesday, October 1st. Day 28_

A week later, Ian came sailing out of his office, practically yelling Mickey’s name and putting him on edge immediately. 

“What now?” he muttered to himself, searching the coffee table for the state of the magazines, which he’d supplemented with some actual interesting reading material. Everything seemed organized in that department, so he scanned the coffee station. Again, tidy. His reception desk was a little messy, but he was doing shit so Ian could suck it up.

But when he got a look at Ian’s face, he relaxed. Whatever had gotten him excited appeared to be good news.

“Greg is looking to invest!”

“Okay,” Mickey replied, throwing his pen on the desk and kicking back. If Ian was going to start going accountant on his ass then he needed to get comfy. A purr came from under his desk when Mickey’s boot came close to knocking into Reuben. Looking up at Ian through his lashes, he checked to make sure the redhead hadn’t heard the cat. He was still warming up to the furball, but Mickey kinda liked having him around for company. He was a great listener.

“Guess what he wants to invest in?” Ian asked, stopping in front of the desk. Big ass smile on his damn face.

“The gold rush?”

Ian laughed, coming around to Mickey’s side of the desk and propping a hip on the edge, assuming the position that Mickey liked to take when visiting Ian’s office. He looked at the guy’s long legs covered in soft grey dress pants, then traveled up and over the fitted white dress shirt and bright blue tie to his handsome face. 

“I give up,” he said with a shrug.

“A motorcycle shop,” he practically yelled again. “I can’t fucking believe it, Mickey.”

That made two of them, but Mickey played it like he totally thought the universe would provide like Amethyst told him every time she showed up to escort the cat home.

“Greg and his friends are weekend bikers and tired of paying big bucks to shops that don’t provide the service they want, so I suggested he invest in a shop of his own,” Ian explained. “Actually, I suggested it _strongly_.”

Mickey grinned. “Nice work. Now you gotta strongly suggest that Bernie run that shop.”

Looking off into the distance, Ian nodded slowly. “You were right. Letting some stuff go feels pretty fucking good. Scary but good.”

Mickey nudged Ian’s knees apart, then stood up between them, fitting his hips in the space he’d created. Ian slid to the edge of the desk so they were touching in all the important spots including their mouths. Immediately, it got out of control and they pulled apart enough to breathe.

“We can’t keep doing this here,” Ian panted. “We’re gonna get caught.” 

“Run the risk/benefit analysis, Ian. I think you’ll find it’s worth it.”

Ian laughed, forehead resting on Mickey’s. “Jesus, I love you.”

“Woah,” Mickey breathed, pressing his body closer to Ian’s. “Look at you taking a risk.”

Swallowing, Ian took one more. “Did it pay off?”

Mickey slid his hand up Ian’s chest and around his neck, pulling him back toward his mouth, forgetting about appointments and deliveries and even cappuccino. Eventually, he had to agree. If they didn’t stop now, they’d be naked when Staples arrived with his new paper shredder 

“What do _you_ think?” he teased.

And Reuben took that moment to purr loudly as his plump body wove between their legs. “What’s he doing here, Mickey?”

“He’s thinking of investing in the stock market.”

When Ian frowned, probably worrying that he’d end up with catnip on his loafers, Mickey distracted him. “Weren’t we talking about you loving me?”


	28. Chapter 28

_Saturday, June 15th. Day 286_

“Fuck,” Mickey moaned for the fifth time. “We don’t have time.”

“Make time,” Ian commanded, getting a surprised look from Mickey.

“You’re a little scary when you’re confident.”

Ian grinned, and in one smooth motion, his fingers slipped around the waist of Mickey's baggy jeans and pulled them, and his boxers, down to his knees.

“But if you’re okay with 20 people showing up for this BBQ while you’re cock’s in my ass then who am I to complain?” That statement ended with a sigh of pleasure as Ian cupped Mickey's rapidly filling cock with the length of his hand. “At least, we’re not in the reception area for a change.”

Ian slunk one arm around Mickey's lower back, rotating him around to face the bed. The other hand caressed Mickey's ass cheek so softly, reverently, lulling Mickey into relaxing under his touch. Then changed gears when he stung the skin with a hard slap followed by a tender caress. Ian's thumb traced around the redness of the smack, making Mickey whimper a tiny bit anticipating what was next.

“A little maintenance spanking,” Ian teased as his hand slid around the front, gliding its way around Mickey's hip, coiling loosely around Mickey's erection, while his nose buried in the side of Mickey's neck. “Tell me what you want, Mickey?" he whispered from behind him.

Mickey breathed deeply. “Steak.”

Pulling back, Ian tried not to laugh as he continued to tug at his cock. “Are you being sassy?”

“Seems unlikely.”

After one more quick nuzzle into his neck, Ian commanded Mickey to lean over the mattress, palms out in front of him. Before Mickey could finish spreading out, Ian had dropped to his knees and bit Mickey in the ass cheek, leaving slight indents in the flesh, which he kind of liked because he felt like that ass was his property.

But Ian was more interested in his cock at the moment, so he flipped Mickey around by his hips until he was laying flat on the bed. He wrapped his lips around Mickey’s thick cock, bobbing up and down the length of him. The constant, almost possessive need for this man made it hard to take things slow, and he slicked his fingers, working Mickey quickly, much quicker than their tantric lessons recommended. 

But even during fast, desperate sex, they maintained that intimacy that had freaked them out once upon a time. It was still a little intense sometimes, and they had to work at not shying away from the tender thoughts and give into their sex drives.

“Please,” Mickey whispered, barely audible and Ian removed his fingers, sliding them between his legs as his mouth moved slowly over the tip of his cock. 

“Say it again.”

Mickey's eyes travelled up Ian's face, catching his eyes. Mickey's eyes were open and clear, and that intimacy returned. Releasing a long breath, Mickey conceded. "Please."

Ian slid up his body, caught his lips, kissing him hungrily as a reward. His hand worked himself into place, and Mickey whispered in his ear again as he slid part way in. Mickey pressed his head against the blanket as Ian fully entered, leaving them both reeling from the hot sensations. 

Knowing they didn’t have all afternoon to take it slow, Ian moved his hips and his hands faster, describing in detail what he planned to do to Mickey after ICG’s one year anniversary BBQ.

\------

“But what if it touches the steak?” Mickey complained as Ian laid several strips of Jamaican Jerk eggplant on the grill after sliding some chicken skewers out of the way. 

“Then I’ll eat that one,” Ian offered. Snickering as Mickey swatted him out of the way to arrange the items on the grill himself.

“Damn right you will.”

As Mickey closed the lid, lining up the long handled tongs with the other tools of his trade, Ian scanned the backyard making sure their guests were all entertained and holding beverages. Old faces and new mingled, relaxed and conversing while the aromas of Mickey-approved seasonings filled the early evening air.

The moment Amethyst and company had gotten wind they were having a backyard BBQ to celebrate ICG’s anniversary, they’d taken over the job of decorating their combined yard space with colorful patio lanterns, potted plants and spacious seating. Lawn chairs were lined up along a series of folding tables ready for supper, and oversized pillows were scattered everywhere for lounging.

Ian kissed Mickey’s cheek then wandered around the yard marveling that this was his life. That he lived and worked with the best thing that had ever happened to him. Later tonight, he was going to show Mickey how important he was to Ian. First though, he was enjoying catching snippets of conversation between family, friends and clients they’d invited to celebrate with them. He sipped his lager and wandered slowly.

“I bought the CV-P tuner kit for my stage one basic upgrade to my stock 2004 883 Sportster,” Greg said, tipping a Heineken to his lips. 

Tony Milkovich nodded. “Did you check the accelerator pump for spray like I suggested?”

Ian kept walking, not catching whatever Mickey’s brother/cousin Jamie said in response. He figured it was like how Mickey glazed over when Ian started talking about allocated loss adjustment expenses, a recent obsession of Ian’s.

Nodding a greeting to Bernie, he paused to listen to Lip describe how he’d rebuilt a Kawasaki the summer between junior and senior year. Ian kept walking rather than share how the bike had annoyed everyone on their street until someone had stripped the thing, leaving only the base. But he had got it running without any help so if he was trying to convince Bernie to hire him, maybe he’d be a good fit.

Reuben lifted his whiskered face from the oversized pillow he was sprawled on next to Amethyst, probably planning his next invasion of Ian’s territory. Despite the tentative peace they’d found, the cat lifted his girth off the pillow, stretching once then sauntered toward the cooking steak. He slithered, almost snake-like, between Mickey’s legs before turning to look back at Ian.

Mickey crouched down, grill brush in one hand, hunk of chicken in the other. Reuben stretched a paw up to Mickey’s face, and received the meat as a reward. Ian turned to the humans sprawled on the pillows rather than watch that display any further.

“Journaling can be very therapeutic for a sub,” Julia explained then stopped to wave at Ian from the pile of pillows she was sitting on. Amethyst and Greg’s partner reclined beside her, while Crusty seemed to be hanging on every word. “You might suggest a minimum of once per week. Greg might find it helpful.”

Unlike the motorcycle conversation, he was interested in the next part of this, but he imagined suggesting that Mickey start a journal about their sex life, which he found equally hilarious, enticing and horrifying. That was a level of intimacy he might not be ready for quite yet.

A tray of food appeared under his nose. “Havarti cream cheese bacon wrapped jalapeno poppers,” Raine announced and Ian’s stomach growled at each word out of her mouth.

“That sounds delicious,” he agreed and lifted one off the tray..

Carl snagged one too, stuffing it into his mouth before the woman could stop him. “Enough out of you, young man,” she chastised him, red lipstick and updo reminding Ian of a 50s pinup model. But he’d seen her in action cutting through secretarial bullshit enough times to know that pinup model comes equipped with a chainsaw.

Liam popped up behind her, also holding a tray. “Mini stuffed peppers.”

Ian slung an arm around his little brother’s shoulders. “Thanks for all the help. You guys went all out on the appetizers. I hope everyone is still hungry for steak or we may have a mutiny on our hands.”

Just then Debs stalked past, Breyon hot on her heels. “Benny is watching the store, Debbie! And I still got my spacious Winnebago. Ian says I can upgrade after seventeen more payments.”

“What the hell is that about?” Ian asked his brothers.

Carl shrugged and Liam explained, “It’s better to remain in the dark.”

When Mickey hollered, “Soup’s on,” their guests began making their way toward the BBQ where King of Grill proudly filled their plates.

Once everyone found seats at the long table, Ian stood up, holding his beer bottle out to the group. Fiona smiled from her spot between Buffy and Blanche, and he hoped now that Frank was stuck in Mexico that his sister had finally found some healthy role models. Those thoughts continued as he glanced down the table, past his siblings and Mickey’s, past the assortment of colorful clients they’d signed, to the other end of the table where Mickey sat. 

Once he noticed that Ian was trying to make a toast, he set his deadly looking knife down beside his plate, visibly unhappy that his steak was about to get cold. Ian smiled at him and cleared his throat.

“Mickey Milkovich,” he began, and Mickey’s eyes darted from Ian’s face to several of their guests and back again.

“What?” he asked suspiciously.

“Will you do me the honor,” Ian continued, feeling all eyes on him but never taking his own off the blue ones that had finally settled on him, “of being my...official partner?”

Mickey stood up abruptly and Reuben shot off his lap, meowing angrily. “Your...what?”

“My official partner.” Ian reached into his pocket for a small velvet box then moved around the table past his sister and older brother, past Bernie and Julia until he was standing in front of Mickey. “In life _and_ in business.”

“ _Ian_ ,” Mickey warned. Whether he liked it or not, Ian was going to kiss him in front of all these people and make a spectacle out of them, but first he needed to get his answer. When he opened the box, the click of the hinges echoed in the night air because not a soul had moved since Ian asked his question.

“Meowwwww.”

For once, Ian was grateful to the roly poly usurper of his boyfriend’s affection because it snapped Mickey out of the trance he seemed to be in, and he looked down at the open box.

“A key?” he asked quietly.

“It’s symbolic since you already have keys to the place,” Ian explained, stepping a little closer as he lifted the heavy, silver key out of the box and handed it to Mickey, who seemed more relaxed now that he knew Ian wasn’t giving him a ring. _Yet_.

“What exactly are you proposing?” he asked.

Ian hesitated for a second. He believed what he was about to say, but still struggled with allowing his life to be led by something other than his head. For whatever reason, he’d opened his business next door to a spiritual mecca that had somehow bled over into his life.

“Well. The twin flames engraved into the head,” he touched the key where it lay in Mickey’s palm, “symbolize truth between two people.” 

He cleared his throat, literally feeling the entire table lean forward to hear him better, but Mickey nodded slightly like he was paying really close attention to every word. Ian wasn’t the only one starting to understand there was more to life than thinking you’re fucked no matter what you did.

“You’re my life partner, Mickey. I trust you in every way, and I want you to be my _official_ business partner too. I’ve got the paperwork inside for you to sign if you say yes.”

Ian’s heart was beating heavily, each thunk loud in his ears as he watched Mickey take in what he’d just said.

“You sure about this, Ian?” he asked, eyebrows high. “You aren’t afraid of the risks?”

“It’s the only thing I’ve ever been completely sure about.”

Mickey started to nod, eyes a little shiny. “Fuck yeah, of course.”

Ian swooped down and kissed him, palms cupping his cheeks, as the guests stood as one. Cheering and clapping and meowing.

They paused to breathe, and he could feel Mickey’s lips moving against his. “I love you, man. But Jesus, I thought you were really fucking proposing in front of all these assholes.”

“I just finished saying I was your soulmate. Know you better than that, Mickey.”

“Meowwww.”

“Well, maybe that damn cat is your real soulmate.”

Mickey laughed, the sound spreading through Ian’s body like a flame, and he knew that it had all been worth it, tenfold. That sometimes, it’s the risky business that pays off in the end. 

Because it brings you home.


End file.
